One of the first things that John realized after moving into a flat with Sherlock Holmes was that it was going to be next to impossible to keep anything a secret. And so he decided to lay two very important ground rules. One - there was a locked box underneath John's bed; Sherlock was never, under any circumstances to touch it. Two - John would leave every Sunday afternoon for a few hours, giving himself a break from the craziness that was life with the world's only Consulting Detective; Sherlock was not to follow him or interrupt him for anything other than an actual, life threatening emergency. If either of those rules were broken then John would move out, immediately. Sherlock liked John, even then, and he knew that he was unlikely to find someone who would be a better flatmate, let alone someone who was willing to assist him with cases. And so he agreed.
The rules didn't change after they became a couple; the box was still off limits and John still disappeared for two or three hours every Sunday. Sherlock figured that just because they were shagging it didn't make him any easier to live with, and that it was understandable that John still needed his weekly break. But Sherlock was wrong. John didn't leave because he needed a break from Sherlock, but rather because he was trying to keep a secret from him. Every Sunday, John went and sat in a cafe and made a phone call. Originally it had just been the desire to have some part of his life that wasn't an open book to his flatmate, but after they became more than flatmates, even when they were just friends, it was merely a secret because he didn't know how to explain the truth to Sherlock.
When John was thirteen and Harry was seventeen, their Aunt Rose, their mother's sister, came and took them to live with her. She was kind and sweet and taught them both that it was unnecessary to flinch or steel themselves every time someone reached out to touch them. Harry had only lived there for a year, and by that point she was far too angry for their aunt's kindness to do much good, but John had thrived under Rose's tender care. She had helped put him through university, and then medical school, and he had joined the army in hopes of making her proud. When he was deployed, she was the only one back home he kept in contact with, and after being invalided out he had promised to call her at least once a week. And so every Sunday he snuck off and made a phone call.
This particular Sunday was different, though. It was a little over a week since they had gotten back from Dartmoor, and Sherlock had just finished a relatively quick, but interesting, case for Lestrade that didn't involve working with Anderson the night before, so he was still in the post-case stage where he was sleepy and happy and almost pliant. Rose had called that Friday and left a message on his phone saying that she had a small day trip planned and so he shouldn't call on Sunday. In order to keep up appearances he went out anyway, even though he really would have much rather stayed in with Sherlock. He walked around, did some shopping, and even called Harry, and after an hour and a half he decided it was good enough and went home.
John jogged up the stairs, still feeling pleased with life in general. Sherlock's coat was still in the closet, which meant that the detective was most likely still in the flat; the doctor couldn't help but wonder what his chances were if he tried to coax the detective back into bed. All such thoughts flew out of his head when he walked into the sitting room and saw that the sofa was occupied not by a lanky Consulting Detective in a dressing gown, but rather by his rather small Aunt Rose in one of her best floral print dresses. She looked completely at ease in their disaster zone of a flat. He briefly entertained the idea that maybe Sherlock hadn't seen her yet, but a crash from the kitchen dashed that hope.
"Aunt Rose," he said breathlessly, "what are you doing here?"
She stood up and smiled at him, albeit slightly reproachfully. "John Watson, is that any way to greet your aunt? I thought I raised you better than that."
"Sorry Auntie," he answered, crossing the room to give her a kiss on the cheek. "I'm just surprised to see you."
"Of course you are," she replied happily; "that was rather the point. I wanted to surprise you, and I wanted to meet that man of yours. I can see why you like him so much; he really is very sweet."
"Sweet?" John couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice, but he recovered quickly. "Well yes he is. Where is he, by the way? I feel like I should speak with him."
"That's probably a good idea," she said, still smiling. "He's in the kitchen making tea." John nodded and went to the kitchen without another word, unable to shake the feeling that he had entered some sort of twilight zone.
Sherlock was in the kitchen searching for some sort of biscuits, or at least something that was fit for human consumption, to go with tea. He had changed into a rather nice pair of tailored trousers and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves of which he had rolled up to his elbows. His hair had been somewhat tamed, but was still rather unruly. He didn't acknowledge that he was no longer alone, but John didn't doubt that his arrival had been noticed. He set his bags down on the table and narrowly avoided sighing; this really wasn't how he imagined his Sunday would go.
"There is nothing to eat in this flat," Sherlock hissed, finally turning around to face his partner; his entire body looked tense and he was glaring furiously.
"That's why I went to the shops," John answered, pulling out a package of biscuits and handing them to Sherlock. He took them without saying anything else and turned back around to face the counter. This time John did sigh as he began to put away the perishables.
"Thank you for doing this," John said, breaking the tense and uncomfortable silence.
"A little advanced warning would have been nice," Sherlock bit out. "I would have liked to make a good impression on your family."
"You did make a good impression," he replied. "She thinks you're sweet."
He snorted. "I thought she was a client, John; I didn't get off the sofa! I wasn't even dressed! And, for the record, nobody thinks I'm sweet."
"I think you're sweet," John answered quietly.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well you're crazy."
"Apparently it's hereditary," he replied without hesitation. Sherlock just snorted again and carried the tea tray out into the sitting room.
Tea was awkward. Sherlock was too upset and flustered to be able to carry on much of a conversation; John was too preoccupied with trying to figure out just how much trouble he was in to really pick up the slack; Rose decided that it would be prudent for her to stay quiet as well - she didn't want to make matters worse between the two men by saying the wrong thing. Though after ten minutes of silence interrupted only by surprisingly thorough glaring, she decided that tea had lasted long enough.
She set her tea cup down with a somewhat forced smile. "Well, thank you for the tea - it really was quite lovely - but I think it's time that I get settled for my stay; long trip and all that. Do either of you boys happen to know of a good hotel where I could get a room?" Rose knew from experience that the best way to get John to do something that he didn't particularly want to do was to imply that you could do it on your own.
John shook his head. "That's unnecessary, Aunt Rose. You can take my room. Come on, let me carry your bag for you." He took her suitcase and was leading her up the stairs before anybody had the chance to protest.
Once they were in his room, Rose smiled sweetly at him and patted his cheek. "This really is very sweet of you. I hope I'm not putting you out."
"You're not putting me out at all," he answered, trying to force a convincing smile. "I really don't mind sleeping on the couch."
She rolled her eyes. "John Watson, I'm not a prude. We both know that there's another perfectly good bed in this house and that you aren't going to have to sleep on the couch."
"Aunt Rose," John said with a sigh, "I'm not sure if Sherlock wants me in his bed tonight. I wouldn't blame him if he didn't." He kissed her cheek and left her to get settled before she could argue with him.
When John came back downstairs he found Sherlock sitting at his microscope. He didn't look up, but he tensed visibly when John came in. John sighed and gathered up all of the tea dishes, deciding to at least do something productive while he waited for Sherlock to say what he needed to say. For his part, Sherlock was doing his best to pretend that he was completely absorbed in his work, but even John could see that there wasn't even a slide underneath the microscope. Finally, after about ten minutes, Sherlock got tired of waiting.
"You lied to me," he said, trying his best to sound like he was just stating another fact.
John nodded, turning to face his partner. "Yes, I did. And I'm sorry."
"You made it sound like you left every week because you couldn't stand to be around me any more," Sherlock continued, his voice gaining some more emotion.
He nodded again. "I know; I'm sorry."
"You keep saying that I can trust you, but how am I supposed to trust you when you've been lying about this for as long as I've known you." The detective was obviously distressed by this point and John wanted to reach out and hold him, but he was pretty sure that that sort of thing wouldn't be welcomed.
He clenched his fists to remind himself not to touch. "I know, Sherlock, and I'm sorry."
"Why aren't you arguing?" Sherlock yelled, launching himself to his feet.
John sighed. "Because there's nothing to argue about. You're right; I'm wrong. There's nothing I could say that would justify what I've done. All that I can offer you is an explanation, and I'm happy to give it to you if you want it. But I don't want to stand here and fight with you - especially not when it's not going to get us anywhere. Because even if we do have a huge drag out fight over this, we're going to end up right back here. You're right, I'm wrong, and I am so, so sorry."
"Fine," he answered, crossing his arms over his chest. "So what's your explanation, then?"
He shook his head. "You didn't deduce it. I started doing this right after we met, and back then I had no idea that we would be anything more than flatmates and maybe casual friends. You didn't know about Rose and I liked the idea that there was one small part of my life that you didn't know everything about. If I had even suspected back then that you would ever mean as much to me as you do, then of course I would have told you."
Sherlock nodded. "Alright, but then why didn't you tell me about it later?"
"And how exactly was I supposed to do that?" He asked, his frustration with the whole situation bleeding through. "Just come home one day and say, oh by the way every Sunday when you think I go out for me-time, I'm really going to go call the aunt that took me away from my abusive father when I was thirteen. That's not exactly an ideal conversation."
He huffed out a breath. "Well even that would have been preferable to her just showing up without warning!"
John rolled his eyes. "Obviously. And if I had known that she was coming, I definitely would have told you. But I didn't know. She didn't give me any warning."
"Really?" Sherlock asked, skeptical. "Why would she just show up unannounced?"
He shrugged. "She has a flair for the dramatic. And she was probably getting tired of listening to me complain about not knowing how to tell you about her every week."
"Every week?" He asked, taking a tiny step forward.
"Every week," John answered. He cautiously put one hand on his partner's waist; when Sherlock didn't flinch away, he grabbed him with his other hand as well and pulled him closer. "Sherlock Holmes, I love you, and I really did want to tell you about this; I just didn't know how. I never meant to hurt you, and I am very sorry that I did."
Sherlock leaned his forehead against John's. "I love you too."
When Rose came down after about an hour, Sherlock and John were basically back to normal. John was sitting at one end of the couch, reading a book, and Sherlock had appropriated John's laptop again and was stretched out on the couch with it, his bare feet tucked up underneath John's thigh. They both looked up when she came in, but neither really paid much attention when she said that she was going to go see if they had anything in the kitchen that she could make for dinner. Neither really thought about what she had said until a few minutes later when they heard a high pitched yell come from the other room. Both men looked at each other in horror for a brief moment before getting up and running into the kitchen. They found Rose standing in front of the open refrigerator, staring at the tray of human feet Sherlock had brought home.
She turned and looked at the two men sheepishly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you two. I just wasn't quite expecting those."
John smiled at her, gently closing the door and leading her out into the sitting room. "It's alright. Our kitchen should probably come with several warning labels."
Rose cleared her throat. "Well, I didn't really see much food in there. I suppose we should probably go out to eat tonight."
"That would probably be best," Sherlock agreed. "There's a really nice Italian restaurant that we go to, or if you wanted something else, I know several good alternatives."
"Italian would be lovely," she answered with a smile. "I think I'll make a shopping list for you boys, though. You two do need to have actual food in your kitchen." She went back upstairs before either man had the chance to object.
Both Sherlock and Rose had retired to their respective rooms for bed, but John had stayed up under the pretense of wanting to finish a blog post. After the flat had been quiet for twenty minutes he turned out the lights and settled in for a night on the couch. He was almost asleep when he heard someone clearing their throat nearby; he opened his eyes to find Sherlock standing over him. Without a word the detective squeezed himself onto the couch. After a bit of adjusting, Holmes was apparently satisfied with their positioning because he rested his head on John's shoulder and closed his eyes.
"What are you doing?" John asked a few minutes later when it became clear that Sherlock wasn't going to offer any explanation on his own.
His friend sighed. "I am attempting to prove to you that this couch was not designed to sleep two grown men comfortably."
John rolled his eyes. "I accept your hypothesis; you don't need to prove it."
"Then what are you doing?" He asked, his voice bordering on petulant.
He shifted so that they were both more comfortable. "Well, I was trying to sleep."
"But why are you doing that out here?" Sherlock asked, burrowing dealer into his partner's side.
"Because Rose is in my room and I need to sleep somewhere," he answered, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
There was a long pause before he whispered, "Isn't my bed somewhere?"
John sighed. "I didn't think you'd want me there tonight."
"I always want you there," he answered, his voice barely audible. "Even when you've been an idiot." John smiled and pressed a kiss into his friend's hair.
A few moments later Sherlock asked, "So will you come to bed now?"
He nodded. "Yeah, of course I will." Sherlock leaned up to press a quick kiss to his lips before leading the way to the bedroom.