In Which John Disgusts Sherlock

John:

"Disgusting."

I look up from the clothes I'd been ironing (mostly Sherlock's, and how he roped me into doing that I'll never know) and try to fight back a blush. I'm not in the habit of singing (loudly, and to Whitney Houston) and wiggling my bum around when I'm aware that Sherlock is home. His current reaction- scrunched nose, pouted lips, narrow eyes, hair even wilder and messier than usual- is a good indicator of why. "Hullo, Sherlock," I say pleasantly, turning back to the ironing. "Don't make such a fuss; I hadn't even tried for the high notes yet."

"What? Oh, don't be imbecilic; I wasn't talking about your singing, dreadful though it is." Sherlock paces over and leans against the ironing board, knocking a stack of freshly-ironed clothes to the floor.

I take a deep breath, shut my eyes for a moment. When I open them again, I'm wearing a patient smile. "What's disgusting then, Sherlock? The ironing? Pedestrian as it may be, someone has to keep you in crisp shirts."

Sherlock scowls. "I meant this. Your…joviality. We haven't had a case in three days and you're walking around as if the world is made of sunshine and kittens. It's ridiculous." He folds his arms and huffs a sigh. "You've cleaned my bedroom, against my will. Scrubbed the tile in the shower despite the fact that I was clearly studying the mold culture therein. Now you've washed, dried, and ironed my clothes, which means I won't be able to saddle Mycroft with the laundry bill. Explain yourself."

"I've cleaned the rest of the flat, too, you self-centered prat," I say pleasantly, scooping up the clothes he'd knocked to the floor and setting them back in the pile to be ironed again. "It's spring! April showers and whatnot. This flat needed a good scrubbing."

"No one enjoys performing menial tasks just for the sake of doing them," Sherlock grits, tapping his foot. He's bored, and that's never a good thing. I give him thirty seconds or less before he starts deducing me to death just for the exercise. "Although I suppose the Army conditioned you into such behaviors, at some point." Leaning up, he eyes me warily. "Why are you so pleased with yourself, hmm? Done something worthwhile, have you?"

"Sherlock," I sigh, ironing a nice, tight crease into the leg of one of Sherlock's trousers, "can't a man just be satisfied with his life?"

Whatever noise comes out of Sherlock, it's clearly derisive. "What, without a case on? Don't be base."

I laugh, and he watches me work in something like petulant silence for several moments. Once the task is done, I put the kettle on and settle down at the kitchen table with a contented sigh.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock runs both of his hands through his hair and begins pacing around the kitchen, mumbling under his breath. I make out the words "hateful" and "cheery bastard" before he rounds on me, his pale eyes slitted. "You ate toast this morning, but with marmalade instead of strawberry jam. You prefer the jam, so that should have given you a measure of discontent." He gestures to my leg. "The humidity is affecting your actual injury, only slightly, but enough that it should bother you." Leaning back against the table, his brow furrowed, Sherlock goes on, "Two days ago you worked an extra shift at the surgery. You should have been exhausted and moody but instead you came home smiling and smelling of…oh." The crinkle of his nose is almost delicate. "How very…"

"That's enough, Sherlock," I say, still mild and smiling, as I pour us both a cuppa. "Well done, you've figured it out."

"At the surgery, John?" Sherlock takes his cup and blows on it carefully, his features still contorted with disgust. "How unhygienic of you both."

"Oh, come off it. We did it in the loo, not the patient's rooms or the offices."

"That's worse!" Sherlock sets his cup down and leans forward, clearly bracing for a lecture. "Are you aware of how filthy the average lavatory is? I can tell you, just from the studies I've conducted personally on the men's room in the Baker Street tube station, that you've opened yourself to contamination from no less than the likes of E-Coli, Staphylococcus Aureus, Streptococcus, Campylobacter-"

"Yes, thank you Sherlock." I try not to grimace as I sip my tea. "I'll remind you that I am a doctor."

Sherlock scoffs and takes a big swig from his cup. "At least you washed your hands afterwards."

"How-"

"Soap scum and routine, John, don't ask obvious questions."

Smiling, I bring my teacup to my lips and pause, setting it back down again. "It took you two whole days to realize I'd had sex? I thought banker boy from your uni days said that was one of your old tricks, calling someone on having had a shag."

He scowls at his cup for a moment and takes another long sip, leaving only draughts behind when he sets it down. Suddenly, his expression brightens and he sits up, looking at me with interest. "How was it?"

I very carefully don't choke on my tea. "What, you mean-? Oh. Um. It was fine. Good, actually." I clear my throat, tug at my collar. "Yes. Very nice." I don't know why this is so awkward (I've discussed this kind of thing with mates before, but it's usually not over tea so much as pints, and they aren't normally looking at me like I'm a specimen in a petri dish).

"Fine. Good. Nice. Not exactly high praise for the first shag since your return from Afghanistan." Calculated casualness. Sherlock, what are you playing at?

"Thought I'd spare you the gritty details," I smile and by God, I think his ears are going pink. I don't even contemplate how he knows that Sarah was the first girl I'd pulled in years.

"Hmm," he hums, considering something. At once he leaps up and grabs his coat.

"Something to do with a case?" I ask, half-standing.

Sherlock fixes me with a distant look, like he's forgotten I exist. "Mm? No." He loops his scarf around his neck and drones, "Have Mrs. Hudson fix something cold. I don't think I'll be back until late." And that's that; the madmen dashes down the stairs, and I'm left with two empty teacups and the distinct feeling that I've missed something.