Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.
Sherlock used to not need to remind himself not to stare. After all, a quick look was enough to figure out most people, and any temptation of his transport (he's human, after all) was easily beaten by reminding himself that nobody would tolerate him anyway.
But John just out of a long bath, with a lovely flush and a few stray droplets still clinging to his skin, is a vision. Too beautiful for words, no matter how many the detective knows, even in an old, faded bathrobe. Frankly, it's unfair.
He forces himself to look away, at his own plate which he's apparently filled without noticing while getting the table ready. How hasn't he realised what he was doing? Well, that doesn't need the world's only consulting detective to solve. Anyone (possibly even Anderson) would – and probably has – figured that out on their own. He has no idea what he's doing because he's in love, God help him.
Or he would if he existed, at least. Sherlock knows that many people credit this or that deity with the creation, or at the very least picking, of soulmates. Frankly, in his opinion the staggering amount of individuals who never meet their fated one is evidence enough that no gods need apply.
After all, even an entirely human average teacher can control the seating of their pupils, if necessary to separate a particularly disruptive group of friends or in hope that a child will benefit from being close to another. And a supposedly all-powerful being who takes pain to etch into every person individually the name of their soulmate can't figure out how to ensure that, at least, they're born in the same nation, so that a central national database might pair them all? Obviously it'd take a few tries because of the homonyms, but still, finding someone in one's own country is way better than looking for them in the whole world. There's no wonder so many settle for the wrong one.
Not that he personally would have, but still. People are mostly idiots. And he really needs to stop his wayward brain from wandering and actually eat some of the food he has on his plate before John starts nagging him about it.
At least now his flat(soul)mate is being quiet, tucking with relish into his own food, not forcing Sherlock to make vapid conversation. With how distracted he is, his mind wandering everywhere in a pitiful attempt not to concentrate too long on John himself and how desperately he obsesses over the other man, it would be simply impossible to be coherent.
It slips out of his mouth without Sherlock even realising it. "You have a gift for silence, John." The look he receives clearly asks if he's pulling his blogger's leg, or maybe being sarcastic. ""I mean it. There's no need to talk with you – no, this sounds wrong, I'm trying to say you don't mind some blessed quiet – you're not and you don't make people awkward and uncomfortable even without empty chatter to take up space. And that's good. You radiate peace. I like that," the sleuth adds softly.
"Uh…thanks. Not sure I entirely deserve your praise, but I'm glad. With you literally shooting the walls in boredom, you can't be entirely surprised that I'd cherish quiet when I got it," John replies, with a half-grin. "And since we're sharing what we like, thanks for getting dinner…and for guessing which dish I was in the mood for."
"Deducing, John," the consulting detective corrects absentmindedly. "Besides, you have obvious patterns according to the weather, the…"
"You're a genius, that's a given," the doctor cuts in, "but don't explain too many details to me or I'll become really self-conscious."
"There's no need to be. I have patterns too," Sherlock admits, shrugging.
John only nods, as if he's simply agreeing with whatever the other man is saying, maybe even without paying much attention. The sleuth suspects that his own patterns are close to bring entirely figured out, if one accounts for the easiness John can coax him into eating nowadays.
If he's not careful, his blogger will turn him into his big brother, before he discovered food groups. Mycroft was huge as a kid…fine, not huge, just a bit chubby, but to the willowy child that Sherlock was he looked like a walrus, especially during the holidays at the beach.
His brother used to reward himself with food, and, well, he's always been good. Then suddenly Mycroft was responsible for the family, and of course, he researched. If he needed to feed his little brother/charge – and God knows that, unlike him, the future sleuth has always been a very picky eater – he had to be able to do so in the healthiest way possible. Between the new knowledge and puberty, the new Mycroft – who oversee caloric intake just as strictly as international treatises – was born.
So, well, Sherlock needs to keep an eye out for that, too. He's already taken a few pounds, and the least he wants is to give ammunition to his brother to turn all the teasing against him. And it's not like his reluctant soulmate doesn't offer plenty of distractions from food. John eats in a most maddening way. It's not meant to be teasing, or erotic, or anything of that drivel – he's very clearly not interested in the sleuth, if anything. But he enjoys himself, and a soft sigh when a particularly tasty morsel hits his palate, or a quick lick to clean stray sauce from his lips are enough to drive the detective crazy, and make him hunger – but not for food.
That should be enough to close Sherlock's stomach, tying it in helpless knots, ravenous for entirely the wrong thing…And yep, if he sometimes nonchalantly helps himself to whatever is on his blogger's plate, this is partly the reason – everything looks so much more palatable the closer it is to the exasperatingly perfect man.
But there's one terrible threat to the consulting detective's shape, and it's much worse than a few stolen bites. John wants him to eat – as regularly as possible, apparently out of entirely misplaced doctorly concerns. And part of him – the one half-stubborn, half-desperate and all irrational, who hasn't given up on somehow earning his soulmate's eventual acceptance – wants to please John. Very much so. A concerned look, a soft, "Something wrong with your food?" are enough for Sherlock to shovel food into his mouth.
That urge to please, though, can have – and has – much worse consequences than a few pounds. Because John is a doctor to the marrow, and won't stop bothering him about a seemingly infinite list of subjects. His attempt to supervise Sherlock's food intake and sleep patterns are actually the mildest symptoms.
It's from the first case that his flatmate has been frowning at the sleuth's nicotine use, huffing anytime he tried to put on more than one patch and glaring at the faintest whiff of smoke smell emanating from his clothes. Annoyed as he's been, Sherlock has immediately learned not to dare smoke in the other man's presence. A shared fag might be one of the few moments he's not arguing with his brother, but with John, socializing will sooner involve bullets than cigarettes.
And yes, he's come to rely on the sweet song of nicotine to help his brain during taxing cases, but that was before, wasn't he? When the only one he had to bounce thoughts off was Billy the skull. When he had to rely only on himself – and enhance his results in whichever way he could.
"You're not alone anymore," whispers Teen Sherlock, lovestruck fool that he is. "John will help out on cases, even if he should forever refuse to get…involved…more deeply. Do you really need tobacco when you have him?"
Mind Palace Mycroft, darker and crueller and oh-so-hatefully reasonable as he usually is, queries, "The question is…how long until you don't have him anymore, if you keep up your self-destructive (in his medically formed opinion) tendencies? Will he stay as long as you provide him with cases, truly? Or will he get bored of preaching to someone who's too stubborn for their own good?"
It sounds stupid, petty, that a soulmate bond might break up over tobacco. Such a bond is supposed to be unshakable by its very nature. But the detective has to admit that their relationship is peculiar – intimate and (for now) platonic, unspoken and blazing. At least on his own side. On John's side…it's a mystery. A riddle he can't solve. But he knows one thing – he can't risk losing his blogger. He would lose his sanity and, in a very short order, his very life.
Until not so long ago, there were doubt and cases and distraction of all kinds to allow him to ignore the smoking issue. But now, it's at the forefront of the detective's mind. Since realising he's not good enough, he has upped his bad habit, he knows. But it's not just a brain-enhancing drug. It's a familiar comfort, a way to relax. And with his soulmate's rejection smarting, he needs all the small comforts he can allow himself.
Not if it destroys them entirely, though. Which is the reason he reacts at the nth glare from his blogger, when he tries to quietly slip out an evening for a stroll, obviously implying a cigarette or two, with, "Do you really care so much? I'm not subjecting you to second-hand smoke." Sherlock isn't even sure why these exact words slipped out, they certainly are dangerous. But he needs to gauge how serious John is on the issue.
"Of course I do, you dolt. It might surprise you, but this was never about me. I mean, when you try to get yourself killed by running recklessly after some murderer or another, at least I can follow and make sure you'll be safe. But with nicotine you're hurting yourself – on the long run, I know. But I'd like to imagine you'll be around long enough for that to be a concern," the doctor huffs fondly.
"You want me around? Long term?" The detective can't help but echo it, despite his hatred of repetition. Of course, John is attracted to the cases – he knew that. But unless he's very much unlucky, the results of his smoking habit won't haunt him until they'll both be too old for the regular doses of adrenaline to be advisable, or healthy. Retirement is a thing for a reason. And yes, John might have said –written, even – that he wanted them to be together still in their dotage, but a part of Sherlock has not believed him then. Will never believe him until he's accepted as a proper soulmate.
John huffs a soft chuckle. "Of course I do! I'm here, ain't I? I would have run for the hills ages ago if I was interested only in a short-term stint."
"Am I not, not ain't," Sherlock corrects without thinking.
"Yes, yes, sorry. When did you swallow a dictionary, just out of curiosity?" his blogger retorts, with a lopsided grin.
"Honestly, John. If I've swallowed anything, according to your colourful metaphor, it was a grammar handbook. You're the one who's a walking dictionary, or rather, thesaurus," the sleuth huffs.
"Well, thanks. Do I get the title for a few brilliant and amazing?" the doctor asks, raising an amused eyebrow.
"You're grossly downplaying your ability to find new synonyms for a single concept, and you know it," the consulting detective remarks, keeping his annoyance reined in. Underestimating oneself is not 'polite' for him, or humble, or whatever adjective people like to stick to it. It's a lie, and an unneeded one.
John grins at him, a bit proudly. And he has a right to be. As much as Sherlock criticises his style, he's addicted to the man's praise – the more public the better.
"Anyway…well, if you were speaking not as an annoyed flatmate, but as a doctor…and, well, as someone who wants to keep me alive – I admit that's still a sort of new concept for me, if you exclude Mycroft – I suppose I should give you a chance. After all, only a fool argues with his doctor," the sleuth remarks, aiming for casual, but hating how awkward he feels. It's supposed to be just a simple offer. It shouldn't be obvious how much rides on that for him (avoiding his soulmate's possible abandonment).
"Would you? Really?" the doctor asks, more shocked than he really should be. After all, the detective never acts expressly to annoy him (unless they're having what Mrs Hudson would call a domestic). How can the man not have picked on how compliant the detective is to his wishes?
"I just said so. And I don't lie…" Sherlock states, but his blogger's disbelieving look makes him quickly add, "…needlessly. Why should I say I would if I didn't mean to? It'd only cause me to need to be even more sneaky about my occasional smoking than I already am. Besides, I still have my patches, and…"
That makes John snap. "Oh no, mister. No patches. You already use multiple patches as thinking aid. Start using them the way they were intended to in the first place, and you'd stick so many on yourself that you'll manage to give yourself nicotine poisoning," he declares, crossing his arms, the very picture of sternness.
The shocked expression on the sleuth's face is downright comical, but he doesn't crack a grin. It's like when raising any child or pup – you can't just back down because they're cute. There is his friend's health on the line, and he'll be damned if he lets the stubborn man destroy it.
"So you're proposing that I use them just for cases?" the detective asks, raising a disbelieving eyebrow.
"Actually, I'd like to propose that you stop using the patches too, period. The nicotine is an addiction like any other…but once you stop, it'll clear out of your body eventually. It'll be like if you never started smoking. And you'll see the advantages, too. Your senses will become sharper…" John expounds, hoping that would convince him. After all, it would help with the Work.
Instead, Sherlock cuts in, "That seems like a flaw, if anything. My senses are sharp enough as it is. Any more, and you'll risk sending me in an overwhelmed meltdown."
"We can cross that bridge when it comes to it. You're clever, you'll figure out how to cope. But I am serious, it would help you to be able to smell better. I've noticed – and believe me, anyone in Scotland Yard has too – your reckless penchant for licking and tasting random substances at crime scenes…and that's another health hazard if ever I've seen one. Have you considered that you're using taste so much because your sense of smell is dulled, and the two are closely linked?" the blogger surmises.
"I'd never considered that," the sleuth admits, looking shocked.
"Well, you're not a doctor," John remarks, grinning.
"And only a fool argues with his doctor," the consulting detective acknowledges, smiling back. "I might need your support though if I'm to suspend any nicotine intake."
"And you have it, of course you do," the blond earnestly assures.
The detective quite exactly imitates a whirlwind for a while, tearing through the flat (thankfully leaving John's bedroom alone – given the result, John would be seriously pissed if he needed to) before presenting John with all his stockpile of tobacco related products with a flourish. "Will you take care of safekeeping these for me?" he asks.
The doctor frowns. "Safekeeping? Why not just throw them away?"
Sherlock shrugs. "I'm the worst at actually quitting addiction. Believe me, better for you if you have something at hand in case I should be unable to," he confesses.
"You're setting yourself up to fail with that reasoning," John points out, his frown only deepening.
"I do eventually get clean. Have you seen me touch any illegal drug during our flatsharing? It's not bad knowing oneself. I am moody in my best days – when quitting something, well. You yourself might decide that the perspective of lung cancer is better for me than the certainty of being murdered – if only because you'd go to jail for that," the sleuth quips.
"Oh, I don't know. I'm pretty sure Anderson and Donovan would bungle that investigation. The only question is: accidentally or on purpose?" the blogger retorts, an amused glint in his eyes but otherwise maintaining his face serious, if not quite as scowling as before.
"Both," the detective admits, and he blurts in a soft giggle.
John joins in, delighted. "You're right, as always. Well, I'll trust you to be right now too. I'll keep these – but you're not to know what I do with them. Out with you, mister. I'll hide these where you can't get them while I am at work. It's not like I can keep them on my person 24/7."
"Do you really think I won't deduce where you put them as soon as I come back?" Sherlock asks, with a slow smile.
"I do. Because your brain will be fighting itself – part of you still wanting to keep your resolution – and that will ruin your deductive abilities," his blogger replies, throwing the different boxes on the sitting room table for the moment. "Off with you. Take a walk, go bother Molly…maybe buy the milk, but I don't want to ask for the impossible."
"I'll do you one better," the detective says, putting on his coat, "I'll go out like you asked…and I'll remove temptation while I'm at it."
"What do you mean?" John asks.
"Instead of running errands, I'll make sure I can't do that anymore," Sherlock quips.
"Do you want to get banned from Tesco? Because it's not like it's necessary to ensure I'll be the one going shopping – I always do that anyway," the doctor asks, more and more puzzled.
"No need to. I'm already banned, not that it was indispensable for you to know. I'm going to ensure I can't buy tobacco anywhere I can get to by walking. And I promise to take you along on all cases or whenever I'm out of said zone," the sleuth explains.
The slow grin spreading on John's face is so brilliant and utterly adoring that he would never allow it to appear if he was in a position to look at himself in the mirror – too embarrassing. But the mirror is at his back, so he doesn't control his features, nor the instinctive, soft, "Thank you. That you'd take such a decision by yourself is so important, my dear," that gushes from his lips.
He doesn't even imagine that this is an attempt to please him, rather than an attempt at self-care. Sherlock scurries off, with a smile of his own and a slight blush – but that must be because he's wearing the coat inside and he's too warm in consequence, certainly not because of his heartfelt praise. If anything, Sherlock must be bored of his admiration.
With the sleuth on his own mission, John tries to think strategically. He has a few different items to hide, and he needs to outsmart the world's only consulting detective. For all the confidence he exhibited, he wonders for a moment if he hasn't spoken too soon. Given that no matter how many times he changes his password his flatmate keeps guessing it on the first or second try, it's clear that his usual reasoning won't work. The man's complete lack of respect for anyone's possession doesn't help either. He could put the cigarettes in his own underwear drawer, and have Sherlock rooting through it an hour later.
No, he needs to find something the man won't willingly touch – or something he won't dismantle, afraid of ruining it. Or both. The blogger walks through the flat, eyeing everything critically to find hiding places that correspond to his needs.
The patches go inside the cupboards, behind the tuna. He has to take a chair to reach it, so the detective won't think he'd bother hiding them somewhere that is in *his* reach better than John's own. And if they're found – well. It'll be bad, but not tragic. Plenty of people use patches – if only he could convince the man to use one at a time, he would probably have allowed them for a while.
What is more of a quandary is where to put the cigarettes. For a moment, John seriously considers the spices shelf, hoping that the confusion of smells might hide any faint whiff of tobacco they might emanate. He decides against it, though. True, Sherlock tends to ignore the sections of the kitchen that actually concern cooking and can't be repurposed for use of his domestic laboratory. Even so, hiding everything in there would show a lack of imagination that would undoubtedly gain him the scorn of the consulting detective.
The doctor continues to pace, frowning. Is there a sacred place where his flatmate won't snoop? It sounds like a chimera. The skull, from its place on the mantle, almost seems to be following him with empty eyes – and judging. Oh, he's definitely judging, just like the sleuth will very soon.
"What do you know?" John huffs, because clearly that empty head is destined to be talked to. Whether it is because of some property if its own, or because it's rooming with two nutters that are, at times, way too lonely, might be up for debate.
That's when the blogger has his eureka moment. The detective might have handled – and carried – the skull way too often in the past , but now the thing is pretty much ignored, no more than a prized knickknack. Because he's there, to bounce ideas off, and as stupid as he is in comparison with Sherlock, he's still a better conversationalist than Billy.
Sherlock's nickname for it slipped out of him an evening when, after a case, they came home to find it missing. The consulting detective wasn't pleased – but Mrs. Hudson didn't seem very apologetic "You can have it back once you bin whatever's causing this smell," she had declared, and John still think it was genius.
Anyway, Billy is a great part of what spooked the yarders so bad originally – the reason people like Donovan expect their consultant to snap and murder a dozen people. John wants to scream at them all the time that if they'd just been willing to talk to the sleuth, no Shakespearian scene would ever have happened at crime scenes.
"You're going to help me out, aren't you? It's not like you want your owner to end up like you too soon. He wouldn't chat with you anymore," John cajoles. My god, he's cajoling a dead skull, he's gone round the bend.
Of course, the skull doesn't answer. It would be worrying if it did! Not answering means not protesting or betraying his secrets, too. John, with his sure and delicate army surgeon hands, hides the cigarette pack in the empty depths of the skull – where a brain should be – and carefully places it back on the mantle.
"It'll be our little secret, fine, mate?" he jokes. There's still a chance that Sherlock will figure it out – but at least, if he does, he's less likely to be careless with it – he wouldn't want to damage his 'friend'. And yep, John must have accidentally removed a bit of dust, but Mrs. Hudson can always be blamed for that. The doctor even finds a rag and dusts randomly here and there. After all, Mrs. Hudson wouldn't stop at a corner of the mantle. Is he going too far? Maybe, but he's taking care of his (well, his at like 99,99%) soulmate's health. Certainly that's worth being thorough.
Afterwards, he sends a quick text, Home is clear – waiting for you. J
The reply is immediate. I'll be back in an hour. Still a bit to do myself. SH
The blogger sits at the table, opening his computer. He can't start second-guessing himself, or fretting. Even thinking about what he's done will facilitate his friend's deductions, he suspects. So the most sensible thing to do is to just forget the bloody tobacco – and cat memes are the way to go.
Browsing around, he discovers that apparently many people have cats just appearing in their houses, more than once directly on their bed, and John can't help but be wistful. That'd be a nice wake up call, instead of violin wailing in the deep of the night. Why these things never happen to him?
Then again, it happening probably requires people to leave either the door or the window open. Unless there's a Sherlock cat with lock picking skills…that might actually interest the detective. But with the sleuth's job, and Moriarty still at large, it's best not to invite any break ins. They would probably be less furry and pleasant than he hopes for.
Part of him is tempted to have a talk with Sherlock about getting a pet, because the critters are just too cute. Starting more than one major change in one's life at the same time, though – especially when one requires you taking care of someone else and the other is guaranteed to make you moody – is obviously a bad idea. Someday, maybe. Maybe he can keep it as plan B for the day the man gets bored of him.