Hi all! This is the first time writing for this fandom so please let me know what you think!
John shifts the teacups around on the small tray, squeezing the milk next to the tin of sugar. It's a balancing act. The edge of one rest against the rim of the tray and though it could topple over the side with one stiff wind, John has much practice.
It's gray outside today. He can see through the window to the bleak exterior, almost shivers at one particularly strong burst of wind, and is thankful that they are inside. The warmth of the flat is due in large part to his own tinkering with the thermostat and Sherlock's distraction from turning it back down again.
Cozy is one word that comes to mind. John breathes deep. Carrying the tray into the living room he hears, before sees Sherlock typing away at the computer. His back hunches over the small pillow the laptop rests on and John resists the urge to lecture him about posture. Sherlock's fingers splay over the keyboard, attention not wavering even when John sets the tray on their already full table, balanced perfectly on some old medical journal.
"Tea, then?" He says. There's no answer but still John knows what to do. The routine of teatime engrained in both of them. A familiar process in between these busy days.
He pours out the tea, breathing the steam into the deep corners of his lungs and proceeds to plop the sugar in. First stirring Sherlock's cup until it melts in before moving onto his own. Just a splash of milk in the former and a healthy does into the latter cup.
It's routine.
John sits in his chair, feels the material give way under him, supporting him. Sherlock doesn't look up but that's fine. There's something relaxed in Sherlock's posture, a lessoning of his harsh posture that lets him know that everything is as it should be.
John can feel the tensions of the week drain away as he listens to the sounds of their home. The quiet but steady sprinkles of rain against the roof and Mrs. Hudson's murmuring phone call downstairs. Sherlock typing. Their combined breathing. The comfortable silence between them.
Sherlock's eyes don't leave whatever is captivating them on the computer but his hand darts out toward the table. He watches as his hand curls around the handle of his cup. It's Sherlock's favorite, though he's never said, but he's never used it in any experiments. He grips the mug where John placed it at the edge of the table and brings it up to take a sip.
He pauses before taking a sip. Something in his face changes. If possible, the angles soften for a moment, and they meet eyes.
John has learned to read so many of his companion's expressions. What the wrinkles between his brow mean, the few smile lines that equate to a genuine smile, but this is an expression he has not seen before.
Sherlock can never be described as soft. He's rude and abrasive and brilliant and, just completely Sherlock.
But the moment stretches out. They're safe in the flat with tea steeped to perfection and Sherlock looks positively relaxed. Sherlock breaks contact and returns to work. His cup rests on the arm of the chair.
He's not sure what thoughts run through his friend's mind. Johns not even sure he ever wants to know exactly how Sherlock thinks but is grateful all the same that there are times when he doesn't feel the need to be the Detective, that he feels that he can be just Sherlock.
"Good?" He says in a quiet tone.
Sherlock doesn't answer but the second sip is enough to let John close his eyes, a small smile on his lips. The sound of the keyboard pauses again but this time John doesn't look up, doesn't open his eyes. If it's important Sherlock has no qualms about interrupting his rest.
It resumes again in double time and John wonders if the computer is the only thing that can keep up with the brilliant mind sitting across from him. He wiggles a bit, sinks further in his chair and lets the tea and rain guide him into sleep.
Something removes the cup between his fingers, balanced but close to tipping over on his lap. A blanket flutters over him before covering his legs. The warmth floods him and beckons to a deeper sleep.
All is well, he thinks.
"Thank you." He thinks he hears Sherlock whisper but he's asleep before the words sink in.
Thank you for reading!