Winter has arrived with a vengeance in London, and is creeping chilly fingers into Baker Street despite the fire in the grate; frost stretching across the windows, frigid draughts whispering through the flat, floors inhospitable to bare feet.
John Watson, clad in slippers, a jumper, and a tightly belted dressing gown is making tea. Two cups, not a full pot. The remainder would be cold by the time anyone got to it, so two cups only. He juggles them carefully into the sitting room, passing one to Sherlock, who is curled up in his habitual chair. The detective's fingers wrap around the porcelain, despite the boiling heat of the cup, and John hears a small hum of thanks.
He settles down into his own armchair, twitching the blanket that he left draped on the arm across his lap. The radiator can't keep up with the freezing temperatures, and neither can the criminals. There hasn't been a call about a case in days, but even Sherlock seems content to wait out the cold snap.
John sips his tea, burning his mouth a little, and exhales sharply around the feeling. Sherlock flicks his eyes towards the doctor, and then back to the fire when he is satisfied the other man is fine.
"So?" John asks, suddenly, cradling the cup in his lap. His eyebrows lift to punctuate the question, steam from his tea wafting in front of him.
The detective doesn't look at him this time, simply stares into the crackling flames and murmurs, "Hm?"
John clears his throat, and shifts in his seat, "Why'd you do it?"
Finally Sherlock's gaze snaps to him and focuses, "Why did I do what, precisely?"
John knows how irritated Sherlock gets when asked such non-specific questions, but the doctor finds it satisfying to annoy the other man sometimes, so he keeps doing it on occasion. For his friend's sake, however, he clarifies, "I assumed one day you'd just tell me, but I guess I'll have to ask. You didn't need a flatmate. You can afford this flat on your own," the doctor pauses, licks his lips before asking the real question, "Why me?"
When Sherlock focuses on someone, actually focuses, John thinks, his gaze seems to take on some physical weight. Some days, it takes a bit of effort to not hop right out of his armchair and leave the room to escape it. Today is one of those days. He feels somewhat trapped - like a butterfly wriggling on a pin by an overly enthusiastic, amateur lepidopterist. He'd truly like to know the answer to his question - having come to understand the financial end of Sherlock's consulting, he knows that the detective certainly needs no help to pay for this flat - but the weight of Sherlock's focus is almost too much to bear. He shifts in his chair, trying to hide his discomfort, knowing that he's failing.
"You're right," Sherlock finally rumbles, turning back to the fireplace, "I didn't need a flatmate."
There is silence, other than the fire popping in the hearth, and the wind blowing outside, nothing separating them from the elements but a thin sheet of glass and a curtain. John waits. If Sherlock answers, it will be in his own time. If he doesn't, well… John isn't interested in the acerbic reply that would result from putting pressure on Sherlock.
In the quiet, he finishes his tea, rustles open the newspaper to where he'd left off. As soon as his face is hidden partially from view, Sherlock murmurs, "You seemed… good. I thought I might need you."
John lowers the paper to look at his flatmate, "Need me how?" For that matter, what does John 'seemed good' mean? A good choice? A good person?
Sherlock twists his body even more tightly into the chair, if that were even possible, and his face twists a little too, "What does it matter, John?" the detective asks, with a quiet snarl in his voice. He still has not turned his attention back to the other man.
"I guess it doesn't," John shrugs, folding the newspaper back in on itself, and settling it on the armrest. He's disappointed, he won't lie to himself. Any insight into his brilliant friend is always nice, but he doesn't have the energy for the aggressiveness Sherlock can display at a moment's notice. He gathers his tea cup and stands, the blanket sliding from his lap and pooling on the rug. One step forwards brings him to where the detective's cup lays abandoned, and he takes that one too, heading back to the kitchen.
"I'm not like you," Sherlock calls suddenly, but John doesn't turn around, just pauses as he places the cups on the countertop. He waits, then, a quiet addendum, "But if I was, that would be acceptable."
John looks down at his hands on the counter and his mouth quirks up into a small smile. He makes more tea.