Chapter 7

"Oh, sorry. I didn't notice you come in," John said, as he almost collided with Sherlock in the kitchen, bracing himself against Sherlock's arms which had gone up automatically to steady him.

"It's fine," Sherlock said, holding him a moment longer in what he would call a hug if it had been anyone else but Sherlock. Sherlock released him but not completely, keeping his hand around his shoulders to steer him to a chair.

Sherlock placed a cup of hot tea that he'd already started preparing on the table in front of him. The kitchen table was the only remaining flat surface that had remained uncluttered. It looks like Sherlock has finally conceded that the dining table was for food and not experiments, at least for the moment.

"Thanks for the tea," John called out to Sherlock who was now in the living room, picking up the mail and the paper. Really, the man can't stay still.

"Here," Sherlock said, as he handed the items to John, turning away quickly to go to the stove before John could say another 'thank you.' John decided to cut him some slack; it seemed he was still uncomfortable with displays of gratitude.

The sounds and smells of cooking soon filled the kitchen. It was music to John's ears and ambrosia to his nose. With a happy sigh, he opened the newspaper and started reading, while waiting for Sherlock to finish preparing breakfast. He could get used to mornings like these.


Ever since John came home from the hospital, the more days that pass, the more Sherlock needed to be close to him: a fact that was quite irrational and strange, he thought. He knew that it was natural to feel the need to validate someone's safety immediately after the danger – he'd oftentimes seen survivors clinging to each other, but he supposed that one would feel this need less and less over time, once it was obvious that the danger has passed. But trust him to run contrary to the norm; ever since the incident, it wasn't enough to verify John's presence by sight alone. He needed to hear John speak, to smell him as he brushed past, to touch him and feel him shift under his fingers. He needed to validate him with all of his senses, and even after he'd done all that, the need hadn't abated. If anything, his brain had demanded more data.

He chanced a glance at John who was sitting at the table and reading the paper. He was as surprised as John to find the other in the kitchen, and so when he bumped into him his body had reacted automatically before his brain could say stop, and he practically pulled him into a hug. He had pulled back, but his hand had been stubborn and had remained around John's shoulder, making the excuse of guiding him to the chair. And then he had suddenly remembered that he had to get the paper and the mail where he'd left them on the side table in the living room, and again he'd remembered that he had to start preparing breakfast and not run his hand across John's shoulders.

The sound of Mrs. Hudson's voice calling out as she knocked on the door was like a lifeline. Perhaps with this distraction, he won't notice his hand itching for another surreptitious brush against John's shoulder. Or his hair, which was bed-tousled (he most likely slept on his left side) and looked particularly soft (no, he was not going to check if it really was as soft as it looked, more data be damned).

"We're in the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock answered.

The scene that greeted Mrs. Hudson was one which she never thought she would ever see. John was seated at the table while Sherlock was puttering around the kitchen. She decided that she needed to drop by more often in the morning.

"How are you, Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"I'm very good, thanks. Sherlock's been taking good care of me."

"I bet he has," Mrs. Hudson said with a wink.

"It's not-" John began.

"And dear me, Sherlock. Are you cooking?" Mrs. Hudson interrupted, going to where Sherlock was standing by the stove and frying some eggs.

"Yes, I am."

"Took a while to get there, but we did get there eventually," John piped in.

"Are you making omelettes?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Plain omelettes, yes. Just how John likes them," Sherlock said pointedly.

"I like my food 'plain'. In fact, I insist on it," John said firmly, knowing from Sherlock's tone of voice that by 'plain' he meant 'boring'. Sherlock rolled his eyes in silent protest. Mrs. Hudson chuckled.

"Mind if I join you boys for a bit?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she stood by the dining table.

"Oh no, please," John gestured to the seat across him. A plate of eggs and toast soon joined them on the table. And of course, Sherlock being Sherlock, the eggs were perfectly done. John supposed it shouldn't have come as a surprise. After all, Sherlock has a scientific turn, which meant that he can be quite precise when it came to measuring, mixing, slicing, heating, etc. Unfortunately, having a scientific turn also meant that he was also quite experimental, which would have been fine had he stayed within reasonable bounds of what was actually edible. John had put his foot down very early on and declared anything that they will actually ingest as off-limits to experiments. Sherlock grumbled (of course) but eventually relented after a particularly nasty experiment (yes, it was an experiment, he wouldn't call it cooking) with the chicken that left a lingering odour in their flat for days.

Sherlock glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who looked a bit giddy with suppressed glee.

"Did something good happen today, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked as he took a seat beside John. He joined John at the table every morning, even though he didn't necessarily eat.

"Oh, it's nothing, dear. It's just good to see you two together."

John would've said something if his mouth hadn't been full of those soft fluffy eggs Sherlock just made.

"We're always together," Sherlock pointed out.

"Sherlock's just taking care of me because of my injury," John clarified, having swallowed his mouthful of food.

"Yes. I'm…what was the term you used? 'Feeding you up.'" Sherlock agreed.

John looked at Sherlock but didn't say anything, as he recognized something he said during their first dinner together, about girlfriends feeding up their boyfriends. He can't really argue against that, not when he was enjoying the breakfast Sherlock made for him. Sherlock was, indeed, feeding him up.

Mrs. Hudson just smiled and continued drinking her tea. Now Sherlock was the detective among the three of them, but she didn't need the level of his skills to see the easy way they now interacted with each other, or how often Sherlock's eyes flicked over to John.

Sherlock, for his part, was still horribly distracted by John's proximity and Mrs. Hudson's presence didn't help at all. If anything, her presence made the craving worse because he knew that she was watching both of them (obvious, given the quick darting looks between them and the way she was smiling behind her cup), so now he can't even lean a little bit slightly to the left so he can catch a whiff of John's scent – the only piece of data he still needed for today. He'd already seen, heard, and touched John. Perhaps he can cover that by reaching for the mail, although that would be odd since he'd never bothered with the mail before. Even after John was injured, he'd left them for John so he would have something to occupy his time while he's staying at home and recovering.

He glanced at John once more and saw that he had almost drained his cup. Perfect. He reached across the table where John's cup was, crowding his personal space as per usual, refilled it, and reached across again to return it to its previous spot. He sat back on his chair with a long exhale. Now that was better.

"Oh, thanks," John said when everything was done, with him unaware that anything more had happened, or was currently happening.

Mrs. Hudson watched everything with interest.

"So what are you boys up to today? Any new cases?"

"Nope."

"What about the one that Lestrade was asking you about?" John asked.

"Boring."

"It didn't seem boring to me."

"It's obvious that the niece took the necklace. There has been no robbery. Once her old aunt falls asleep, she sneaks out – which is hardly a challenge given that her aunt can probably sleep through a thunderstorm. You can bet on it that girl will be out of that house within the month, if not within the week. They just need to sell the necklace."

"They?"

"Yes, the girl and her boyfriend."

"She has a boyfriend?"

"Of course she does, why do you think she's sneaking out all the time?"

"Right, of course."

"The real mystery here is why Lestrade keeps bringing in boring cases like these."

"Why indeed," John said under his breath.

Mrs. Hudson decided to keep quiet, content herself with watching Sherlock and John, and try to suppress the occasional giggle. If Sherlock hadn't been so preoccupied with his rant against the general dullness of people, he would've picked up on it immediately and so would've got an answer to his earlier question a lot faster. As it is, it would take a few more mornings with Mrs. Hudson and a few more visits with Lestrade, with the two coinciding more and more frequently, before he finally figured it out.