After several trips to and from 221C, John and Sherlock managed to rid the spare flat of all his discarded experiments, and even though he was so tired that he felt like he was wearing cement bricks for shoes, John agreed to stop and have a bite at the Chinese place. He wasn't certain if he should be worried or not, as Sherlock generally only commemorated the close of a case by going out to eat, but by the time they settled down and began to flip through the menu, he really didn't care. Too tired, and too pleased to be eating, as a long day had turned into a longer night, and he'd managed to skip his dinner in favor of getting people in and out of the surgery as quickly as he could. Had he known that he'd be up until the wee hours of the morning anyhow, he might have set aside a few minutes to take a meal, but that was neither here nor there.
John had learned some time ago that you couldn't really plan for Sherlock Holmes, and he'd adjusted fairly well. It kept his life interesting and sometimes a little bit infuriating, but his temper was always quick to abate as long as it wasn't continually provoked. Almost as soon as Sherlock had realized his displeasure he'd sought to fix it, albeit not in the most... conventional way. Not that there was anything conventional about his best friend, so John really hadn't expected much different, but he could appreciate that the effort had been there, and there'd been only minimal complaining as they'd hauled all his excess paraphernalia to the lab so that it could be properly disposed of.
Then John had made Sherlock wash his hands up to his elbows, side-by-side with himself so that he could be sure it happened, and they'd slid into a little corner booth at their favorite Chinese place and ordered some food.
It was nice and peaceful, and even if he would rather be face-down in his bed catching up on some rightfully deserved sleep, this was better than some alternatives. Sherlock could have just dragged him out on another case the moment he walked in the door, and God help him, he didn't think he would have refused. He found it was difficult to deny Sherlock much of anything when he was truly excited about it.
Eh, that was a dangerous thought. He could, and certainly had, denied his friend plenty of things, but for the most part, he went along merrily enough and assisted where he could, to their mutual satisfaction. If Sarah scolded him for coming to work with circles under his eyes and pressed coffee into his hand while he passed, well, it was... nice to have her attention?
Who was he kidding? His relationship with Sarah was going no where fast, largely due to the man sitting across from, serenely spooling noodles around his chopsticks as though he didn't have a care in the world. You'd think he'd be a bit embarrassed to be out and eating past midnight in his dressing gown, but apparently not. Had it been a bit too much to hope that he might be, so that perhaps he'd learn his lesson about going a little nutty while John was gone?
Yes, probably.
"We don't have any room in the fridge, so you'd better finish off your meal if you can." Slanting a glance from across the table, Sherlock added, "And none of those experiments are in any position to be disposed of."
John stabbed his breaded chicken with a scowl, lifting the fork to point it across the table at Sherlock. (He wasn't quite skilled enough to do with chopsticks just yet, especially not when he was tired.) "We're going to go over some rules about our living arrangements. Revise them. Stick to the them this time."
Sherlock peered at him from across the table, and then after a moment's consideration, said, "No time like the present, John. What concerns you?"
How could he - absolute genius, but completely socially inept. Sometimes, it still even shocked John, who had largely come to terms with his brilliant flatmate's shortcomings. For a moment, he simply stared, and then he chuckled and pulled a pen out of his pocket.
"All right. How can you not have any idea? Sometimes, Sherlock." He shook his head, hunching over a small square of napkin. "Right, so, here. This is the kitchen."
Sherlock leaned over as well, shoulders up and expression intent on the sketch. "That is a remarkably faithful outline of our kitchen. I'm impressed, John!"
There was a little glow of pride, as there always was when Sherlock praised him, and John felt a little bit like a fool. Or a small child, maybe, unduly pleased by the attention of his... er. "Well, I did a bit of sketching and whatnot in school. Thought about being an architect, briefly." At Sherlock's intrigued look, he added, "Very briefly. All right, so here."
He pointed, tapping the surface with his thumb. "I require a space just for me. For my tea, for my biscuits, for my pants if I want them there, do you understand? This is all mine, and you can have free range of this expanse." He began marking up the napkin, penning a large J in the midst of his area, shading in the rest of the counter.
"Table top needs to be split fifty-fifty." Here Sherlock interjected a noise of protest, expression quickly going stormy when John spoke right over the top of him. "We can't always be having take-away and going out, and that aside, I'd like to be able to sit down at the table once in a while with the news and a cup of tea and not worry about putting my elbow in someone's eyeballs."
There was an ungracious snort. "If you simply took a care with where you set your elbow, you wouldn't have that problem."
John aimed him an unimpressed look. "No more experiments all around the flat. It's ours, Sherlock, not your flat with me kipping on the sofa now and then, so you need to respect my boundaries."
For some reason, Sherlock seemed pleased by this. There was a brief flare in his eyes, a large smile that dominated his face for a moment and then slipped back into the petulant half-sulk that he'd adopted for most of the conversation. Well, John wasn't going to sit there and puzzle it out; he just wanted to be heard, finish his meal, and go to bed. "And the fridge."
"What about it?" Sherlock demanded, hands knuckled on the tabletop. His noodles were, apparently, forgotten. "I require certain temperatures for some of my experiments, John. Even you know that."
"I do," John agreed, massaging his temples. Vision graying at the edges - yes, he needed some sleep. Just a nap, even, would be excellent. "And that's why we're going to get you... a mini place. Mini fridge," he corrected.
"How am I going to fit an entire human head into a mini fridge?" Sherlock asked skeptically.
It should have bothered John that no one bothered to look up and over; too used to the two of them at a table, muttering nonsense back and forth, apparently. "If you really need use of the big one, you may have the bottom two levels only. I don't want anything dripping from your experiments onto the leftovers. I think I'm being very fair."
John sat back, hands laced in front of him, and waited for the argument. He was very surprised when Sherlock leaned forward more, smiled slightly, and agreed.
"Sorry?" John asked, blinking.
"Must I repeat myself?" Sherlock asked, sighing. "Your terms seem reasonable enough. As you have emphasized, it is our flat." There was that smile again, slightly mischievous, completely indecipherable as far as John was concerned. "I suppose I must have compromises to keep you happy."
Bemused, John said slowly, "All right, then... you're sure I'm not going to have to bring this up again?"
"John." His face was slightly disappointed now, but in a patronizing sort of fashion; John could tell, because he reached across the table and patted his hands. "You know I hate repetition. If I have need of one of your spaces, I will.. ask."
The idea of Sherlock Holmes asking for anything was enough to make John snort a laugh. "Right then. Let's get this boxed up and... ah, bugger, no room in the fridge."
Sherlock signaled their server, a half-smile on his face. "Oh, I'll arrange some room. You just worry about going to sleep once we return home."
Later, face-down on his bed, John would consider it odd that Sherlock had referred to 221B as home rather than the flat.
However, he was too damn tired to really care.