Bedraggled and disgruntled John fumbled with the key to 221B, the rain slicking his fingertips as he cursed this bloody English weather. All he wanted to do was sit by the fire with a cup of tea and some jam on toast, and he swore to God that if Sherlock so much as mentioned a case he would lock himself in the bathroom just to get some peace.
It wouldn't work, of course. He'd tried it before.
Shivering he burst through the door at last and threw off his jacket, shaking the droplets from his hair with a ragged hand, numb from the cold. Hugging himself tighter into his thick jumper he started to climb the stairs, naturally cautious – sometimes he found all sorts of incriminating evidence and vile experiments in there. But today he found himself alone.
With a sigh of relief he padded into the kitchen, noting that there was nothing particularly abnormal on the table: a microscope, some slides, some scalpels. Even now he didn't dare look in the fridge; he had taken to hiding his milk and jam and other essentials in the mini fridge he'd installed in his bedroom. He filled up the kettle calmly, watching the water flow like the silence dwelling over the apartment.
It wasn't until he flicked the switch to boil the kettle that things went wrong. Sparks flew and sizzled on his skin as he jerked back in anger, wondering what Sherlock had done this time.
And why with the kettle?
He muttered obscenities under his breath and decided to skip the tea. John slumped back into the kitchen and found the firelighters, piling kindling into the grate along with newspaper and some twigs. He questioned where Sherlock was. If he had been there, John would have ordered him to sort out the sodding kettle and make him a cup of tea.
He lit the fire and watched it burn for a few moments, shutting his eyes to barricade out memories. Sherlock had been so worried for him, and vice versa. John didn't even remember getting taken by Moriarty; he guessed that he had been drugged, and decided not to think of the possibilities of what had actually occurred.
Snuggling into his chair, he hung his head over the arm lazily, flopping down in a way that looked uncomfortable but in reality John was quite happy. He gazed as the flames – upside-down now to him – reached down but never actually touched, blending in and out of one another seamlessly as they practised their age-old dance.
John remembered dancing – slow dancing, jazz dancing, street dancing, disco dancing... He had never been good at any of it. He recalled distinctly being told by his father that he danced like an old man, and even now it brought him a little chuckle. He would watch dancing with envy, the way two people could be so intimate and so elegant and so perfectly in sync with one another that they could just express everything without words. Dare he say it, John had even been an admiring of ballet dancers (although he never told his father that).
Before long this heat warmed his soul and he found himself drifting to sleep, dreaming of the comrades he had seen lost, but not in sadness, just pride. In truth he had not only missed the danger, but missed it like a limb. Without danger, what was there to do? That was how John Watson saw it, and apparently Sherlock Holmes too, to a degree.
Neither would admit it but they were saved by their union.
The key turned in the look and he strode in, practically hopping up the stairs, not caring that his coat was soaked through and his hair flat with rain. He grinned from cheek to cheek; there was a crime scene. He would have gone there alone but he always liked the company of his doctor – he would say it was for a second opinion, or for the constant praise, but there was just something about having John beside him.
He broke into the living room with gusto and then stopped to hear John's snoring. The room was cosy – not how he'd left it – and his body betrayed him by growing drowsy in an instant. There were better things to do. He forced himself to stay awake.
"John?" he asked quietly, uncharacteristically mindful. He paced round to the other side of the chair and looked down at him, and smiled softly. He observed how peaceful John looked, how delicate, how gentle. Sherlock knew otherwise. He could tell by the creases of his forehead that he had been angry – no, furious – before he had relaxed and fallen asleep. Judging by his twitching fingertips, it was clearly a sweet dream, and judging by the fact it was him it was probably something about his old friends.
Sherlock almost scoffed at the word. He knew he hadn't lied when he had said he only had one friend. John was his friend – his best friend – his only friend – but he still couldn't understand why people call so many others their "friends". Most people don't trust the people that they call their "BFFs" or whatever nonsense they came up with. Now, a true friend, a true partner – well, that title, for Sherlock Holmes, could only be fitting to John Watson.
He wandered into the kitchen, fiddled with the mechanics, and flicked the switch.
John blinked slowly and opened his eyes to see the fire flicker before another log fell onto it from nowhere. John jumped and sat up, but for some reason he wasn't afraid. It was like he could sense him. The scent of November nights hung in the air as he relived his childhood – standing around a bonfire, marshmallows on sticks, giggling. Things had been so simple then.
In confusion he shrugged off the blanket that had been draped over him and blushed a little. Sherlock was home, that was definite, so had he been the one to give him the blanket?
Mrs Hudson, John resigned, and settled back down again, shutting his eyes once more.
"I made tea," he murmured, holding out a mug.
John looked up, smiling, and reached out for it, sipping softly as he watched Sherlock slump into the other chair, not once letting his gaze drift.
"So," John tried to make conversation, but found no words. He yawned. "Good day?"
Sherlock almost chuckled. "We've got a-"
"Save it," John stopped him. "Don't ruin the moment."
At this point the detective seemed a little uneasy. "There are plenty of moments, but not plenty of ca-"
"Don't even say it!" John interrupted jokingly, but noticed that Sherlock's expression was beginning to sour. "Sherlock. Look at us."
He frowned, but said nothing.
John rolled his eyes. "Sentiment, Sherlock."
"Ah."
Even though he claimed not to understand it, John could see the passion in his expression. He smiled.
"Thanks for the tea. It's not drugged, is it?"
Sherlock grinned. "Not this time."
And the fire's glow shimmered in his eyes.