Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.
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Sherlock noticed rather quickly that Joan wasn't a morning person. Oh, she would be operational in less than five seconds if woken up in emergency (as proven during the recent incident involving a frying pan, different brands of sticky notes and a small fire at four in the morning), but when there was no adrenaline rush to get her system to gear up, she would need at least a cup of coffee and a substantial breakfast to start giving coherent answers to external stimuli. He found it fascinating that a person would go into combat mode at one summon, but otherwise would just sluggishly yawn in the kitchen. He was currently compiling an experimentation protocol to see what kind of impulses would elicit the fastest reaction from his newly found colleague, while appearing in deep thought to the world.
Joan wasn't exactly paying attention, as she was half-sprawled over the kitchen table, waiting for the water to boil. She was letting her hair grow, apparently because of her sister pestering about it relentlessly. And probably the lack of time and resources to go to a hairdresser (last cut done just before leaving the hospital, he estimated). Meanwhile, her bangs were constantly falling over her eyes, and being too sleepy to push them away, she just puffed at them, in a fruitless attempt to create enough air stream to move the annoying hair.
The kettle started to whistle softly, startling the good doctor from the semi-slumber. She pulled two relatively clean mugs from the shelf, and even produced two clean plates to put some toast on. It still surprised Sherlock that she would prepare his share too, even if he rarely touched it. But she didn't seem ready to stop, and he caught himself eating the toast occasionally. Looking marginally more awake than ten minutes ago, Joan brought Sherlock's plate and mug to his side. She seemed to have learned that there were moments her flatmate wouldn't react to anything. This sort of meditation, or mind palace as he called it, wasn't a rare occurrence, and she had to work around it, not that it seemed to overly bother the ex-soldier.
Luckily, she couldn't tell when he was pretending yet. Sherlock had little doubt that Joan would be able to do so shortly, but until then, he shamelessly used this advantage to covertly observe his flatmate's behavior in the casual setting.
So far, he came to following conclusions:
i) John Watson was always ready to help (Evidence: helped Mrs Hudson in minor handiwork, did the shopping for both of them, complied with occasional errands).
ii) Joan Watson preferred to be called John (Evidence: bitter grimace every time her sister called her Joan on the phone). Side note: she intentionally does not reveal her middle name – investigation in progress.
iii) John had a nasty temper (Evidence: the yelling he got after leaving some fingers rot in tea mugs).
iv) John tried hard to appear common and normal, and dull, but this front fell quickly at every conversation they had.
v) John got bored just as quickly as him, but she was better at managing it. At least for now.
vi) John seemed genuinely fond of Sherlock. And impressed by his deductive abilities. Which was refreshing. And she was actually mindful of his moods (Evidence: she didn't push him to eat or sleep, even when she clearly thought he should; she didn't nag him about his bouts of inactivity or unorthodox experiments, at least the less destructive ones).
Overall, he found himself discovering new things about Joan Watson every day, which was highly unusual – it never took him so long to know a person. Then again, maybe he never wanted to know that much about a person before.
A soft clutter indicated that Joan finally arrived at the table with her breakfast. She was relishing a long sip of coffee, when her phone beeped urgently from her pyjama's pocket. Her initial scowl deepened at the sight of the caller's ID. Being privy to only one side of the conversation, Sherlock listened raptly.
"Watson" was her sharp greeting. Her voice was harsh, obviously trying to distance herself from the caller, but still holding remnants of sleep.
The muffled voice on the line sounded urgent. Sherlock saw the moment adrenaline kicked in and Joan woke up. "What?!" Her eyebrows shot up at the answer. "What do you mean, missing?" Another frantic string of muffled syllables. "Did you call the police?" She got up, toast and coffee forgotten. "Alright. I'm leaving now, hang on till then." She put the phone down with a little too much force. "Right" she sighed.
Sherlock kept pretending to be disconnected from the world. After a quick glance at him, Joan practically ran upstairs, and he heard her rummage through the closet. Interesting. He was considering the new data, while nibbling at the toast, when Joan came back five minutes later, fully dressed. She made a beeline to her phone, but paused hesitantly in the middle of the room, chewing her lower lip. It was the first time Holmes saw his flatmate being prey to such doubts, and waited patiently for the outcome. The toast was finished, so he occupied himself with gulping down the coffee.
Finally, Watson seemed to come to a decision, and turned to face him, standing at parade rest. "Sherlock…" she started. The detective looked up, indicating his attention. "Can I ask you for a favor?" He just lifted an eyebrow as a cue to elaborate. It was also intriguing to see how quickly Joan learned to interpret his facial expressions. "I think it's probably nothing bad, but there is a boy missing, and I would appreciate your opinion on the matter."
That was the politest anyone had gotten while inviting him to a case. Delightful. "I'd be happy to help, John" he said with maybe a little too much false cheer, judging by the incredulous look on the doctor's face.
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A/N: So, it's a short ark with an original plot, as promised. Hope that you like it :)