A/N – Thanks, again, to ScopesMonkey. :o)
John reaches into his desk to grab his cell phone when it rings. His head is aching, especially just underneath the knot on his forehead. He desperately wants to get some sleep, but if he goes home he'll have to deal with Sherlock. He isn't ready for that yet. His elbow aches just thinking about it.
The display shows Mrs. Hudson's number and the doctor groans. It's never a good thing when she calls.
"Hello," he says, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.
"Hello, dear," she says. "I saw your blog, how are you feeling?"
He smiles at the idea of Mrs. Hudson reading his blog. She probably checked it after hearing the argument this morning.
"My head hurts and I'm sore but otherwise okay. How are you?"
"Perfect, dear," she says. "I'm calling about Sherlock."
Figures. "What's he doing?" John asks, dreading the answer.
She pauses a moment. "He's cleaning, actually cleaning. He just asked to borrow my mop because he couldn't find where you keep yours."
"It's in the upstairs closet," he says realising that has nothing to do with anything. "Did another experiment go wrong?" The only reason Sherlock cleans is because he's done something he isn't supposed to and doesn't want John to know. John always knows though.
"I assumed so, naturally. However, he's doing laundry. I've never seen him use the washing machine before. When I heard him in there I thought he might be taking it apart again." John nods; Sherlock had decided that he needed the agitator about a year ago. "He was putting clothes in though. Very strange, dear. I thought that you should know."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John says. "I'm probably going to leave here early. I'll figure out what's going on."
"Of course," she says. "Feel better, love. I hope that the domestic this morning wasn't too serious."
"No. It's fine," he lies. He's still pretty pissed.
"Good. Glad to hear it. I'll see you later, dear, feel better."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Good-bye."
John rings off and tosses the phone onto his desk. He brings his hand up and runs it carefully over his face. What an odd day: stitches, ruined clothes, head injury, Sherlock cleaning, and being contacted by Phillip Hannover.
He just wants to go home and sleep and hit the reset button for tomorrow. Sherlock won't let that happen though. Sherlock will probably insist on apologising again and again until John forgives him. Or rather, annoy John until he decides it isn't worth being angry anymore. God, he doesn't want to go through that tonight.
He wonders momentarily if that's why Sherlock is cleaning, to apologise. He doubts it. He knows that the mould experiment will be over when he gets home. The pots and pans will be returned to where they belong and Sherlock will be in denial that it ever happened.
He'll feel bad about the injuries though. Sherlock feels guilty enough when John is just angry but John's never been hurt by an experiment before. Perhaps that's enough to get Sherlock to clean.
He still doubts it. He has no idea what would cause Sherlock to clean other than an experiment gone wrong.
John opens the scheduling programme on his computer. He's done for the day but he wants to check that none of the other doctors in the office are going to need him to cover patients. He's relieved to see that the afternoon appointment blocks are mostly empty. He can leave with no problem. In fact, he probably won't be the only one.
He opens his email programme to make sure there are no pressing patient issues to be handled and he sees that an email from Phillip in his personal account. He smiles, still surprised to have heard from him. He'd noticed the notifications this morning when he'd posted his quick blog. It had made him laugh. He couldn't remember the last time he spoke to Phillip.
He opens the new email and reads through it.
Hi there,
I see from your blog that life appears to be going very well for you. Glad to hear it. Glad you are happy. I'll be back in London in two weeks. Would you like to do dinner one night? I'd love to meet this husband of yours, he sounds fascinating. I have one, too, well not legally, but technically. He's a Kiwi, Kenneth. He's still in Wellington finishing up the business with selling our house and stuff there. He'll probably be another month. I'd love you to meet him though, and he you. My mom passed away last year so we are going to be settling here, in Leeds.
I hope we can get together soon.
Phillip.
John replies quickly, giving Phillip his mobile number and saying he'll check with Sherlock, but that he'll be there for sure. He smiles again, excited to see Phillip again. They'd always had a great time together.
It's just as he hit sends that he realises that Sherlock has probably checked the blog this morning. John groans and buries his face in his palm.
Jealousy. That would explain the cleaning.
Mrs. Hudson is standing in the hall when he walks in. She has a troubled look on her face and is staring up at the flat above her. The reason is obvious as soon as John is completely inside.
The smell.
"Is he cooking something?" John asks. Mrs. Hudson turns to him and nods.
"I believe so, dear. There have been some worrying noises coming from the kitchen."
He groans again, slamming his hand on the banister and pulling himself up the stairs. It smells like garlic, a lot of it. Garlic cooking in butter. It's normally such an appealing smell, but the overwhelming odour combined with the pounding in his head is making him nauseous. He can actually feel his stomach churning as he reaches the top of the stairs. He contemplates going up to the bathroom and getting sick before going into the kitchen but decides against it. If he starts vomiting that will only throw Sherlock more out of whack.
"Sherlock?" he calls as he tosses his bag down. He pulls his coat off and tosses it over the arm of the sofa as he turns towards the kitchen. He closes his eyes a moment, trying to calm his stomach, and opens them just as Sherlock pops his head around the wall. John jumps back, startled, and Sherlock frowns.
"Hello," the detective says tentatively stepping fully into the living room and looking at his husband. "You don't look well, John." He pauses, glancing at the knot on John's head. "I mean in addition to the injuries."
John nods and his head starts to swim. He needs to open the window. He needs to stop the cooking. He needs to get sick.
"What in the hell are you doing?" he asks, moving past Sherlock and into the kitchen.
"Cooking," the detective says as if it should be obvious. If cooking implies that the food should be edible, then he is mistaken as to what he is doing.
"Yes, I got that," John replies, unable to keep the snappishness out of his voice. This fiasco is doing nothing to help John's general aggravation with Sherlock. "I mean what in the hell are you cooking?"
"Oh," Sherlock responds. He reaches to the counter where he grabs a sheet of paper and hands it to John.
The doctor looks at it but is unable to focus on the words. They swim in front of his eyes. He pushes it back at Sherlock, "There is no way it calls for this much garlic, Sherlock. We need to open the window. I'm going to be sick."
That's enough - Sherlock frowns but moves quickly to the living room. John leans against the counter and closes his eyes. He hears the windows being opened. The doctor takes a deep breath through his mouth and grabs the pan that is the source of the odour and puts it in the sink. He turns the water on and listens to the sizzle as the water boils off, cooling the pan. He turns the water off and stumbles into the living room.
He hears Sherlock moving around, but doesn't look for him. He focuses on the sofa and keeps his eyes on it. He settles on the end closest to the windows and sits down. He gulps in a breath of fresh air and feels better almost instantly. He gulps in another and the nausea subsides enough for him to look around the room.
Sherlock is standing on the other side of the coffee table frowning over at him. He's a mess: dirty, dusty, and covered in unknown food products. John contains another groan.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock says and John can see the pain there. He thinks he's done two things wrong in the same day. Sherlock hates to do wrong things.
John just nods his head. "It's okay. It's just too much garlic."
Sherlock sits down in his chair and continues to stare at John. "It said use three cloves. We had four of them, so I used three."
John holds up hand. "We had four heads of garlic Sherlock, not four cloves. The cloves are the little parts that break off the head."
He watches the detective's eyes go wide, realising his error. John would laugh if he was feeling better or if his flat wasn't going to smell like garlic for the next year.
"I'm sor-" John holds his hand up again.
"Don't apologise, Sherlock, you didn't know. Mistakes happen. It's okay."
Sherlock crosses his arm and sits back in the chair. He's going to sulk, disappointed with himself. It annoys John but he pushes the feeling down. Yelling is going to get him nowhere and it's uncalled for. Sherlock made a mistake, even the World's Only Consulting Detective is entitled to a few now and again.
"Why were you cooking?" John asks him, pretty sure he knows the actual answer but interested to see what Sherlock is going to say.
The detective continues to frown and looks away. He isn't going to answer it at all, John realises. Usually means he's embarrassed.
"How about the cleaning, will you tell me why you cleaned?" Sherlock doesn't move.
John leans back on the couch, annoyed again. "You don't get to be angry, Sherlock. I'm the one who has stitches and an aching head. I'm not the one who's made the flat anti-vampire. I get to be mad right now. Not you."
The detective's head shoots around. John doesn't miss the flash of panic in those grey eyes, but Sherlock quickly plasters indifference on his features. John knows better though.
"I have apologised for…"
"Yes you have, but an apology doesn't mean that I'm done being angry, especially if you are going to act deaf, dumb, and blind over there."
Sherlock straightens and manages to push himself farther into the chair and away from John. John sighs and deliberately sits forward, opening up his body. He moves to put his elbows on his knees but remembers his stitches just in time. He puts his hands there instead and meets his husband's eyes.
"Is this about the blog? About Phillip?" Sherlock looks shocked for a moment. He often does when John manages to figure something out.
They stare at each other, John refusing to let his gaze waver. After a moment Sherlock nods and slouches down.
"Why did he look for you now?" he asks and John shakes his head.
"I don't know, Sherlock. You'd have to ask him. I haven't spoken to him in, I don't know, ten years. I have no idea what his motivations might be. If I had to guess though, I'd think he was making contact with an old friend. People do that sometimes, sentiment you know."
"You weren't friends John, you had sex with him."
"I have sex with you. Aren't we friends?" John can tell that Sherlock doesn't like that one, because they are. He wants to say that it's different but can't figure out how.
John sighs again, rubbing his palms into his eyes, careful to avoid the knot on his forehead. He wants to go to sleep, he wants to take some medicine and climb into bed and hope that he feels better in the morning.
He doesn't want to go through this with Sherlock.
He hears Sherlock stand and walk away. He hears his husbands footsteps on the stairs and a moment later he hears them come back down and walk into the kitchen.
He looks up as Sherlock enters the living room again. He's holding a bottle of pills and a glass of water. John smiles inside, amazed yet again at the complex contradictions that make up his husband. Angry to sulking to caretaker in less than five minutes.
He accepts the pills and water and offers Sherlock thanks. A second later Sherlock is back in his chair, sulking again.
John looks at him a moment, before looking towards the floor. "Sherlock," he looks up to meet his husband's eyes, "do you think I'm unhappy with you? Do you think I want to leave you or cheat on you?"
John's heart breaks a little as Sherlock looks away. The detective shakes his head, but doesn't turn back.
John nods, looking towards the window.
"I hurt you this morning," Sherlock says. John doesn't look towards him, hoping he'll keep talking. "The experiments annoy you. You don't like all of my cases. I don't help you with chores, or cooking, or anything. I'm selfish."
John almost laughs as he turns back, almost. Sherlock is still looking away.
"Look at me please," John asks. Sherlock turns reluctantly. "I'm interested in meeting with Phillip because he's a part of my past, a pleasant part, and I'd like to catch up with him. I'm going to dinner with him in two weeks." Sherlock sinks deeper into the chair, frowning even more. "And you're coming with me. He wants to meet you."
John watches Sherlock's brow furrow. "His husband won't be in the UK for another month or so, but when he gets here Phillip wants us to meet him, too."
The creases in the forehead deepen.
"He friended you on Facebook," Sherlock states as if that is some definitive action on anything.
"Is that the Facebook account that you created for me that I don't know the password for because you won't tell me what it is?" Sherlock manages to work his face into a glare. "Because I know that I'm not as smart as you, but I certainly hope that I'm smart enough to tell my potential lovers not to contact me through the social media accounts that my husband controls."
"Potential lovers?" Sherlock asks, choosing to focus on two words instead of the obvious sarcasm. He's losing the fight and he knows it. John allows his lips to turn upwards.
"I was being facetious and you are well aware of it. And since you obviously have some doubts let me clarify for you. I love you, Sherlock." The detectives face softens as John knew it would. He keeps going though, wanting to drive the point home. "I love everything that you are with everything that I am. You're it for me, the only one. I have never sat around this flat and wished you would stop doing experiments. I love watching you do experiments because they are a part of who you are. Sometimes I wish you'd leave me a note telling me there are pots on the floor or that there is blood in the fridge or not to almost drink the milk that has the hydrochloric acid mixed with it. But I won't limit you any more than I already have. I'd rather have the experiments that end with me in stitches than none at all because the experiments are a part of you."
John takes a breath and Sherlock relaxes in his chair. "I'd like it if I was granted more consideration - I think ever spouse wants that - but I'm honestly not complaining. I'm honoured to be the one person that the great Sherlock Holmes can stand to be around for more than an hour. I'm proud to be loved by you. I will never cheat on you. I will never leave you."
"But ,,, " the detective starts.
"No buts. I'm stating facts here, there is no room for debate. I need to add though that just because I accept the experiments and doing all the housework and cooking doesn't mean that I don't get to be angry about it sometimes. I know you don't like it when I'm angry but I'm allowed to be. And I'm allowed to have friends and Phillip is one of them. He's a part of my past and a part that I remember fondly. Being friends with him takes away absolutely nothing from my relationship with you. I don't have a finite amount of affection, Sherlock. I can love you and be friends with him at the same time."
John watches as Sherlock stares at him. He can almost hear the gears turning, thoughts processing. Once again he's looking for an out but can't immediately find it.
"He still has a set of your dog tags," the detective states suddenly and John is confused.
"What?" Sherlock pulls the silver chain out from under his shirt and holds the tags out so that John can see them. John almost rolls his eyes, obviously he wasn't confused about what dog tags were.
"He said in one of his comments that he found a pair of your dog tags. He asked you if you wanted them back. Didn't you read his comments?" It's a momentary flash of superiority for the detective but John cuts him down quickly.
"No, just the last one really. I don't blog for the comments, especially if the entry is almost five years old."
Sherlock frowns, "Well, he says he has a pair and wants to know if you'd like him to return them."
"Do you want me to get them back?" John suspects the answer but wants Sherlock to say it.
"Of course. Your ex-lover wearing your dog tags is an unappealing idea." John almost smiles again. He doubts Phillip is wearing them around. He honestly doesn't remember giving Phillip a set, but during the last 2 years of their relationship the two of them more or less lived together. It's not surprising that there was some mix up of belongings.
"Then I'll ask for them back." Sherlock nods, that apparently is a victory for him in some way. John has no idea how.
"He suggested that you should not be with me because I do not like jazz."
John wants to question again, not really understanding, but instead of an answer he'll probably get a tirade on the origins of jazz music.
"Well that's the pot calling the kettle there. He always hated jazz. I could never get him to go to any of the concerts with me."
Sherlock looks puzzled by this. "I used to get annoyed with him when he wouldn't consent to go, even for my birthday or Christmas. He didn't like it and wouldn't go. He was obviously making a joke."
"I go to concerts with you," Sherlock states as if John were unaware of this. "I don't like it but I go."
"I know that," John says smiling. "I appreciate it, you know that. You'll also go to football if I make you. You hate that too, but you go because of me. Thank you."
Sherlock nods, feeling smug for a moment. John smiles at him, amazed that he is no longer angry about the pots and pans or the stitches. He can never stay angry at Sherlock very long.
He's still tired, though, and wants to sleep.
"I'll go with you to meet this Phillip." John had no doubt that his husband would make the trip. "Although I am certain that I will dislike him."
"Perhaps," John says, but he suspects that Sherlock will actually like Phillip despite himself. "As long as you promise not to be rude, I will not ask you to like him."
Sherlock nods again, agreeing to the terms. John smiles.
"I'm going to nap, my head is killing me." Sherlock frowns and turns to John. John knows he's evaluating him for his injuries now, concerned about his wellbeing.
John stands and moves over to the chair. He runs his fingers quickly through his husband's dark curls.
"Clean up the kitchen please." Sherlock nods. "You can probably bin the pan. And shower, you smell atrocious." Sherlock smiles up at him and John leans down for a kiss. He aches as he does so, but fights off a wince. Sherlock doesn't need to see that.
John straightens and walks towards the stairs.
John rolls over and hits his elbow. It wakes him as he sucks in a breath, moving to cradle the injured area. It's dark outside. He notices that he's cold, which is not surprising as they have the bedroom window open to alleviate the still pungent garlic odour.
He feels Sherlock adjust in the bed next to him and hears his voice a second later, "What? Are you all right?"
John nods even though his husband is facing the other direction, "Hit my elbow."
Sherlock rolls over then, settling on his back. The grey eyes examine his husband in the dark room. He holds his arm out and John settles underneath it. John throws his injured arm and leg over his husband. A second later he feels gentle lips against his forehead as he settles his head on his husband's shoulder.
The doctor closes his eyes and feels sleep returning. The steady heartbeat beneath his ear helps lead the way. It's the most familiar noise in the world.
"I love you, too," the detective whispers. John smiles, fingers settle on the back of the doctor's head. Their easy movements help drive the now constant ache away.
He knows his injuries won't wake him up again. Sherlock won't allow it.
