FREDDIE FREELOADER
In which John is in love.
John was in the kitchen, making breakfast. The flat smelled of toast and Earl Grey. Sherlock stood in the hallway, watching him as he stretched to reach the cups at the top shelf and ransacked the fridge for butter and cheese. John was humming. He only hummed when he thought himself to be in love. This was getting serious.
"I made some toast for you too, you know." Sherlock wrinkled his nose, and entered the kitchen a bit unwillingly. Breakfast was something that happened to other people. He still did not fully understand how John could repeatedly fail to grasp that simple fact.
They sat down at the table, and they did not talk about the previous night with Mary at the Opera. John began to eat and read the morning newspaper, while Sherlock carefully sipped his tea. Hydration and warmth did wonders to his thought process. And his cold hands. Blood circulation was not to be underrated.
"Got any new cases?" John asked, munching away on his toast.
"You know I don't. Not even Lestrade can shake up a thing for me. He's giving me cold cases," he said with a sneer. "Cold cases, John. You know what that means!" It was really getting quite bad. The criminals of London had picked a hell of a time to become law-abiding citizens. Sherlock would do anything for a good old-fashioned murder mystery to keep his mind afloat. Leafing through reports of stolen cars and minor misdemeanours was not what anyone would call a challenge. He suspected that even the DI himself could solve them if he was given enough time.
"Oh," said John flatly, and turned a page. He was clearly working up to something of importance, that was for sure. "I won't be back to night. If anything pops up, just send a text or something. Let me know." And there it came.
"Spending the evening with Mary, I presume?" Sherlock knew the answer even before he asked, as it was quite obvious.
"Actually, yes," he answered slowly and smiled to himself, and Sherlock did not resist the urge to roll his eyes. This Mary woman again. He really had to sort her out, somehow.
"I think you'd like her, if you got to now her better. She really is a lovely person."
"Oh, John, I doubt that very much. You know my feelings towards that sort of people." Nice and lovely people was the worst kind he could imagine, apart from certain relations. And of course John knew that. If he hadn't, he would not have lasted as his flatmate for all those years, let alone the first week. So, he simply shrugged.
"Suit your self. You're the one missing out on good company." He took a swig from his teacup. "I really like her. I never thought I'd ever say this, but I think she just might be the one for me." Sherlock found the entire statement irrational and obnoxious, but he strategically shut up, since he knew that love was one of John's weak spots.
"We'll swing by the flat tonight, so I can get ready after work. Then we're off to dinner at some restaurant in Islington that she likes. She says it's the best Indian place in London. Try not to ruin anything in the living room while I'm out. It would be nice to present the girl with a nice and tidy flat for once. Do not touch the fridge. I repeat, not the fridge again! I'm using it for food!"
"If you wanted to be at work in time, you should have left fourteen minutes ago," Sherlock pointed out coldly, in an attempt to silence the elaborate dinner plans. He could not stand another word about the lovely Mary. It worked. John cursed and abruptly scampered off with his jacket in one hand and his half eaten toast in the other.
Solitude at last. He finished his tea and sat down in his armchair by the fireplace. It still smelled faintly of woman's perfume, jasmine. He fished up a file from the pile of unsolved cases that Lestrade had smuggled out to him from he archives, but he quickly lost interest. A pale sun shone in through the window, and Sherlock found himself wondering at the velocity of the illuminated particles of dust suspended in the air.