The first three days were awkward.
In the extreme.
Primarily because neither John nor Mary were at home much at all. Sherlock had seen a flash of blonde hair – highlighted and neatly cut in the most modern of styling and presumably attractive, he supposed – as the latter left in the early hours of the morning, followed an hour or so later by the darker blond of her husband's. Each of them departing for their occupations of choice, the working man and woman.
Off to their pedestrian, plebian, paycheque-producing jobs.
So disgustingly boring.
And so it is on the fourth day that he meanders his way into the kitchen, well after the hour his flatmate – flatmates (!) – have risen each day thus far. John bought tea last night, he'd heard the rustle of Tesco bags being flung about late amid some rather colourful swearing about demon-possessed chip-and-pin machines and the priceyness of Sherlock's favorite type of gourmet chocolate biscuits. Sherlock had smiled unseen into his microscope (now moved into his bedroom, as the cleanliness of the kitchen table was an incontrovertible Rule Three); some things never change, apparently.
Intent as he is now upon his yet half-asleep search for Earl Grey, he rather thinks he can be forgiven not immediately noticing the figure standing in front of the rangetop, stirring something in a small skillet.
Unfortunately for him (and his tea-deprived mind), it appears that entering a communal room clad in nothing more than black silk pants and a hastily-snatched afghan is a Bit Not Good.
Mary Watson takes one wide blue-eyed look at him, and he suddenly realises one, his state of (un)dress; and two, that that is probably Not Done in proper circles. True, his flatmate's wife is in a sateen dressing gown, but it is completely modest by any and all standards.
And judging from past experience, apparently his own attire is not.
"Um," he hazards awkwardly, edging back toward the bedroom door. He is aware that most Regular People would be appalled by his actions, and while in his defense he has never had to be so well-behaved in his own flat, he does recognise there are certain barriers which probably should not be crossed.
Yet.
Rather than flying into a rage or hiding her eyes amid exclamations of aghast surprise, however, Mary Watson's lips curve in a hint of a gentle smirk.
"Yes, well. Mr. Holmes." She gives the scrambled eggs another brisk stir, and he can see a faint colour rising in her cheeks despite her amusement. "I assure you that tall, dark, and scrawny isn't my type at all; but that doesn't mean I want to be slapped in the face with a nearly-naked man every time I've a day off. Think we could work on that, a bit?"
He snatches two tea bags and the nearest dry cup, stashing them like a thieving schoolboy in his afghan, and scuttles back to his bedroom.
Annnnnd then realises once the door closes on her giggling, that he rather needs hot water to make tea. After a brief internal struggle on the merits of breaking open the tea bag and simply chewing the contents (absorption rates are a tricky business, and it would be a rather interesting experiment), his caffeine-deprivation wins out over his pride, and he returns to the scene of his crime against The Common People and their ridiculous mores.
His flatmate's wife (he has not yet asked – has no intention of asking – her to call him Sherlock, and it would be rather rude to presume and call her by her first name without reciprocation) is smiling to herself, stacking two empty plates and cups on a tray already containing a dish of steaming eggs and ham as well as a pitcher of orange juice.
"I put the kettle on for you," she says mildly, and only raises a pert eyebrow at his blink of surprise. "You're welcome," is the dry addition, accompanied by another disbelieving look at his midsection, and he unconsciously shifts to hide himself more fully in the afghan.
A last glance at the tray tells him all he needs to know about the miscalculation; obviously, the two of them have a day off their ridiculously inadequate jobs; either planned or coincidental. Inference: loud experiments or those involving noxious fumes will not be welcomed, nor would today be a good day to dissect the bowl of tadpoles on the bottom shelf of the fridge.
Mrs. Watson picks up the tray and moves to the door, silken dressing gown trailing delicately around slipper-clad feet. "John's bit a bit stressed of late. Breakfast in bed," she explains, as if Sherlock is too stupid to make the deduction himself.
He bristles.
"If you've noise-canceling headphones, I'd find them, by the way," she adds wickedly, and sashays up the stairs.
