"This is the pl-place," Sherlock said, handing some money to the cabbie and stepping out onto the pavement. He and John walked up to the door, which was opened immediately by a kind-faced woman in a plum-colored dress and an apron.
"Sherlock!" She said sweetly, pulling him in for a quick hug before ushering them both through the door.
After much fussing and exclaiming how much Sherlock had grown (despite the fact that he was a fully grown man) from Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, the two men walked around in the small flat, almost sizing it up.
"This could be very nice. Very nice indeed." John said walking behind the sofa and examining the items upon the mantelpiece. Finally he plopped himself down in a chair, Sherlock following by sitting gently on the sofa. The taller man fixed his crisp eyes on the man before him, his seemingly x-ray gaze never faltering on John.
"S-so John," Sherlock began, once Mrs. Hudson had left. "Why hav-haven't you sa-said anything about I-it?" John looked confused and he licked his bottom lip pensively.
"I'm sorry I don't understand. Have I done something wrong already?" He looked genuinely concerned that he may have caused a problem and it made a warm feeling bubble in Sherlock's stomach.
"The stu-tter. You haven't said anything abou-about it. Why?" Sherlock was trying his damnedest to deduce what it was that was keeping John from at least acknowledging his stutter. Most people either showered him with false pity or understanding. But maybe John wasn't like most people. The detective hoped that was the case.
Sherlock watched John sit with a soft half-smile before he answered.
"It's never been a problem. I mean I thought you rather didn't like when people pitied you." John crossed his legs and leaned back I'm his chair. He brought his hand up to his chin and eyed Sherlock curiously.
"Y-you speak as though we-we've met bef... OH!" Sherlock's mind zoomed back to the past. The sandy haired boy he bumped into when he was running from that mass of taunting children, the only boy who never made fun of him, the boy who gave him slight smiles in the halls and sat at the table nearest his empty one at lunch. "John." It was barely a whisper.
"John you are AMAZING!" Sherlock leapt from his seat and pulled John to standing by his hands. He put his hands on the shorter man's shoulders and smiled at him.
"Wh- Sherlock what just happened here? Did I... Did I miss something?" Sherlock squeezed John's shoulders slightly and grinned wider.
"It's you! You're him! You were the nicest boy is ever met at school even though we'd never even spoken to each other because you were a year above me!" When John looked confused Sherlock dropped his hands by his sides and sighed. "Do you remember that day when you were in third grade and I bumped past you and didn't say sorry? Or when you smiled at me in the hall?" John made noises of agreement but Sherlock didn't give him time to actually answer. "Do you realize how much that meant to me? You were the only one who didn't make fun of me or pity me. You just treated me like anyone else which was exactly what I've wanted people to do my entire life!" Sherlock stuck his hands in his wild hair and barely suppressed the urge to hop up and down. He looked at John, though, and settled down. John was giving him the most incredulous look Sherlock had ever seen. "What? What is it?" John just stood stiff as a board before finally opening his mouth to speak. When he did his voice was hoarse and utterly... surprised sounding.
"You just... Do you realize how much you've just said without a single stutter. And you've said it faster than even I can speak! That. Was. Amazing!" John's face cracked into a smile that gave Sherlock that weird feeling in his gut again.
"John! It's you! You make me speak fluently! I don't know why but I will definitely be going into further study about that. It happened back at Bart's too when I gave you my name and address." he returned his hands to his hair and spun around on the spot. "Something about you makes me speak without the stutter! It could be the sound waves your voice sends out triggering something in my left frontal lobe or" and he was off, spewing out stuff John could only register as 'sciency facts and stuff '. John stood there, smiling, watching this brilliant, crazy, wonderful man speak like an auctioneer, despite his dreadful stutter, about stuff John could barely understand because of their complexity. He looked around the flat; boxes and books made a sort of labyrinth which Sherlock was now wending his way through to the kitchen, still mumbling something about the occipital lobe. The soldier sat down in his chair again and thought to himself, living with this man could be the worst and the best decision he's ever made.