After visiting Primrose hill where Sherlock had pocketed his samples and debated with John whether cloud gazing was entertaining or not, they headed down a street a few blocks from 221B. John could tell Sherlock was becoming a rather hungry- slightly irritable and repetitive –and made a rash decision to turn into a chocolate shop before heading back to the flat.
The violinist knew all too well of the doctor's intentions and interrogated him on the matter. "We have food at home, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would make you a cup of tea if you don't want to yourself. You just went to the store a few days ago; there's no need to purchase more food."
John sighed, pocketing his loose fists and peering at the man. "You're the one complaining that everything is dull. Don't you desire for variations in your day?" he asked with an eyebrow raised while he peered around the shop. It smelled like chocolate, obviously, but there were hints of other ingredients. The soldier was almost certain that if he'd ask at that moment Sherlock would be able to correctly list the other aromas sufficiently. Watson really had no intentions on going in the bloody shop until now. He'd seen it and it looked inviting- that was all there was to it.
"Fine, fine. Just get your chocolate and let's go. I have an experiment waiting," mumbled the detective as he began pacing around the shop. The doctor was glad no employees were out front yet.
John found it humorous that Sherlock, after all of his deductions, could not realize that they were in the shop for him. He was the one that needed food, he was the one slowly melting- no pun intended.
John did, however, find it somehow charming that the detective was peering at the labels as if to say: Why would you call it Cashew Delight? …Incredibly tedious for a chocolate. With a disapproving scoff, Sherlock set his eyes onto his blogger, patiently pleading in silence to head back to the flat.
The doctor placed down the box he was examining with a sigh and turned on his heel. "Yes, very well. Let's get you back home then," he muttered, already out the door, bells ringing his exit.
It only took him a mere second to realize his actions before Sherlock's long stride followed after the doctor's down Baker Street. "John!" he called out, ignoring the pesky civilian's glares. "Wait!"
John shrugged off the violinist futile attempts and marched upstairs, tossing his jacket on the chair in the sitting from as he did so. "John," Sherlock said at last, turning the man around by pulling on his elbow gently. "We can go back. I was being a git. You were trying to help." He rambled on, reminding the doctor cantankerous quickly of the scene in Baskerville, before John took in a deep breath and let the situation go. It wasn't important, really, was it? While Sherlock babbled onwards, John reached up and kissed his lips swiftly before heading to the kitchen. "I'll make you some tea," he said and it wasn't a question.
Written on request for ConsultingAngelWarlock. This took a bit long and didn't end as I planned, but it's Sherlock so what can I say? I have a bit with Anderson I'll post here in a day or so. Thanks for reading, dear.