John laughed, and stifled a yawn.
"I guess a bit of food won't hurt." He squeezed Sherlock lightly, before rolling off the bed.
Sherlock smirked and stretched, hopping down and snatching John's jeans before the doctor could get to them.
"Sherlock, I know that you have no issue with running about the flat starkers. I, however, prefer to cover up. Should too, in case Lestrade comes barging in."
The detective paused. John did have point, but then again seeing him running around nude would be very good.
"No. If you choose to cover up, then go grab my blue dressing gown from its hook."
John rolled his eyes, but marched into the bathroom anyway. The sight that met him in the mirror sent blood pumping to his cheeks.
He was flushed, his hair spiked up from Sherlock's fingers. His lips were red and swollen, his eyes scarily dark.
He caught sight of the massive red and purple bruise forming across most of his neck and smiled. Yes it would be impossible to cover, but Sherlock had done that. It was evidence that what had happened had actually happened. So was the drying mess on his stomach and thighs.
He sighed, wetting a flannel and wiping himself off. It wouldn't do to run around like that. He ran a comb through his hair and snatched the over sized dressing gown from the hook.
Sherlock watched John's figure retreat to the bathroom and involuntarily squeezed the jeans in his hands. He felt a bit of resistance from the back pocket, and frowned. Picture, 3x5 High quality print. He pulled it out, utterly surprised to see that particular picture.
How on earth had John come into possession of it?
The crazy woman. Jenkins. It had been on her wall. John. must have snatched it when Sherlock wasn't looking. The detective smiled.
"You never cease to surprise me."
John stepped out then, wrapped in Sherlock's over sized dressing gown. The blue silk stretched nearly to his ankles, the sleeve a good ways past his hands. He had it tied tightly around his waist, but it still slid stubbornly off of his shoulders.
Sherlock licked his lips, the sight everything that he had envisioned it to be.
" Food." The doctor said, rubbing his hands together.
Sherlock shook himself and grinned, snatching a pair of boxers from the drawer. He quickly hid the photo there.
They meandered into the kitchen, neither one speaking, just enjoying each other's presence. John started the kettle and stole glances at Sherlock, who was grimacing at the contents of the fridge.
"There is nothing edible in here."
John croaked back a laugh.
"You no see how I feel nearly every morning."
Sherlock groaned.
"It's nearly 2am, so no takeout, and Mrs. Hudson will probably be asleep."
John paused and then snapped his fingers.
"Got it."
The doctor fell to his knees and crawled into one of the bottom cabinets. He let out a soft cry of triumph when he found what he was looking for.
Sherlock watch the proceedings with rapt attention there was something significant about what John was doing. Something important.
The doctor finally stood, a package of Pims in one hand.
Sherlock nearly gasped. John was offering to give up his favorite treat just because he was hungry. It may as well have been a declaration of love.
"Here we are then."
"John, I can't, those are you favorite."
The doctor held up a hand to stop him.
"I can always buy more. Go ahead and sit down."
Sherlock nodded, and retreated, the tubular package grasped in his hands as if it were made of glass.
John made up the two mugs of tea, thankful that Mrs. Hudson had managed a carton of milk for their flat.
Sherlock was on one side of the couch, the biscuits in his hands, his head down, and a clear open seat beside him.
John took the seat, and frowned worriedly at the younger man.
"Sherlock are you alright?"
The detective laughed harshly.
"of course I'm alright John."
He snapped, sitting upright.
" Then why do you look like I just pissed on one of your experiments?"
Sherlock shook his head, and held up the biscuits.
"You love me."
John turned blood red, his ears burning and his stomach twisting painfully. Sherlock sounded so defeated, so pained by those three words.
"Yes, I do. But Sherlock, I don't expect for you to feel the same. I mean, aside from what you said earlier, I know that somewhere in that head of yours you have feelings for me and-" Sherlock put up a hand to stop him.
"What do you mean by what I said earlier?"
The doctor's blush deepened further.
"Well, I mean, you probably don't remember. Throws of passion and all that." Sherlock was thoroughly intrigued-and mad-now.
"What. Did. I. Say." He spat. John coughed
"when you, err, when you ,came, you shouted out that you loved me."
All the color drained from the detective's face. He stood rushing to his room And locking the door, leaving John alone.