Chapter four
John Watson was sure that for the first time in his life he was going to faint. Sherlock BLOODY Holmes has just, in no more than three breaths, proclaimed their friendship, asked after his well being, and made clear that he knew John's daily habits.
He was stunned, floored, cold-clocked, flabbergasted, any number of colorful euphemisms would be inadequate to describe the sheer shock of Sherlock's short speech.
"We, are… friends, John, are we not?"
That brought him around quick enough.
"Yes!" a bit too loud, "Yes, we are. Friends," John grinned, "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson: Friends,"
Sherlock stopped cringing as if in expectation of a blow, "We are friends," he repeated, smiling.
John bounced a bit on the balls of his feet and rubbed some warmth into his hands, "Right-oh, then, I'll make us that cuppa. What have you got over there anyway Sherlock? Something interesting?"
John heard Sherlock return to his seat and smiled to himself. Soon the flat filled again with the normal noises of cohabitancy. John fussed with the kettle, and Sherlock bounced half formed ideas off the back of that blond head. The consulting detective cursed as a puff of breath sent tobacco ashes scattering across his notes, and the blogger grumbled at the game on the tele.
As John settled into his chair, Sherlock sprawled on the couch opposite, he began to tell Sherlock about Charlie Kaeigh and Kyle Smithsen.
Holmes reached a hand toward John and pointed,
"Of course he knew,"
'Of course he knew,'