John's texts had grown progressively more tetchy as the day had gone on. Sherlock determined that one of his fellow doctors had not shown up to the surgery, and so John was carrying a double-load. Add that to the fact John had not had a date in the few months since he broke up with the boring teacher, and John Watson was not a happy man.
Sherlock hated it when John was not happy.
And that was why there were kettles bubbling in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street, as Sherlock prepared a surprise dinner for his flatmate and friend.
Friend.
John Watson was Sherlock Holmes' friend. The word was inadequate to express all John meant to Sherlock. In the year since they had become flatmates, Sherlock had discovered what it meant to have a friend and partner. Someone he could completely trust and rely on. Someone he could not imagine living without.
Sherlock had never been happier than his time with John on Baker Street. He'd enjoyed a few years of happiness with Redbeard as a child, and he remembered spending time in the chemistry labs at uni with the rush of a child on Christmas morning before he tired of his gifts. But his time with John… this was unprecedented and precious. John Watson had taught him the meaning of friendship and happiness.
And Moriarty was coming to take it all away.
Mycroft and Sherlock were tracking Moriarty's movements as much as possible, but the man was as much a snake as a spider, slipping through their grasps. The brothers were coming to the realization they may have to set a trap to snare their quarry.
Of course, John would want to help.
Of course, Sherlock would have to leave him out of the plan.
Because Sherlock had found someone he could completely trust and rely on. Because Sherlock had someone he could not imagine living without. Sherlock realized he could no longer remember what it was like to live without John. He began to doubt that he could live without John.
If that meant he had to die for John, that is what Sherlock would do.
But for tonight, mushroom bourguignon would have to suffice.
Sherlock heard footsteps on the stairs up to the flat and added pasta to boiling water.
John paused in the doorway to the kitchen. He smiled quizzically at Sherlock. "What is this?"
"I thought I'd make dinner for us."
John shrugged off his jacket. "This is a rare treat. To what do I owe this honor?"
"It sounded like you were having a frustrating day." Sherlock stirred at the mushrooms, pearl onions, peas and carrots bubbling in a rich red wine sauce. "I was hoping that a hearty meal would help you relax."
After draping his jacket over the back of his chair, John entered the kitchen. He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, a rare moment of contact instigated by John. "Thank you, Sherlock. This smells fantastic. Anything I can do?"
"Chop some parsley for garnish or pour the rest of the cabernet for us?" The warmth from John's touch filled Sherlock with contentment.
"I think I can manage both."
The two men finished dinner preparations, their movements synchronized after a long time working with each other. Sherlock craved moments like this. All his life, he'd never felt like he belonged anywhere. In truth, it had never bothered him much to be an outsider. He'd never dreamed he'd find someone he fit with so seamlessly as he did with John.
When he had to leave, these moments are what Sherlock would miss the most. The domesticity, the strong sense of home he experienced with John.
John broke into his thoughts. "How about I start a fire and we eat in the other room instead of the kitchen?" John chuckled. "Not that I don't appreciate the fact you cleared off this table."
With an exaggerated sigh, Sherlock responded. "My efforts go unappreciated." He turned from the stove to smile at John. "Sounds perfect."
Sherlock chose two matching shallow bowls and plated up the food. He meticulously wiped sauce from the edges of the bowls and sprinkled parsley over the top. Once he was satisfied with the presentation, he stepped into the sitting room. The table had been set with two places. John had doled out generous pours of wine. Golden flickering light from the fireplace illuminated the room. Nothing else remained to be done.
"Let's have dinner." Sherlock placed their meals on the table.
John sat down, his body language completely relaxed. "This is exactly what I needed tonight."
There was an entire wing in Sherlock's mind palace dedicated to John. One room was decorated with portraits of John bathed in firelight. As he memorized this evening's John to add to the collection, he knew deep down he'd be visiting this room frequently in the lonely time to come.
"I'm glad."
As he tucked into his food, John said, "This tastes as amazing as it smells."
"I'm pleased that you like it." Sherlock began eating as well, small deliberate bites.
"Aren't you hungry?"
Sherlock remembered the words of The Woman. He knew what she meant when she asked him to have dinner. He knew what it meant to have dinner if one wasn't hungry.
Sherlock stilled his fork. "Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn't hungry?"
He was not hungry, actually.
John smiled at Sherlock, an open and affectionate smile. Sherlock caught his breath at the sight of it.
"Thanks again, Sherlock."
"You're very welcome, John." They ate quietly for a few moments, while Sherlock thought of what to say next. He was only beginning to comprehend what he wanted and knew he'd have to exercise caution. Hungering for your straight best friend was certainly ill-advised. Sherlock should have been upset with himself, yet he could not regret that John had shown him he was capable of great depths of emotion. It was something he could never indulge in, though. This comfortable, beautiful, transformative friendship would have to be enough.
Attempting to sound as affectionately dismissive as possible, Sherlock waved a fork at John. "So, I'm looking forward to your overly dramatic tale about your day."
As John launched into his rant, Sherlock continued to eat, his heart having never felt so full.