A/N: First off, I would like to thank each and every one of you who have reviewed, favourited, and alerted this story. It means a lot to me, and I am both deeply honoured and humbled by your feedback.
Secondly, if you have Twitter or Tumblr, follow me rainethegeek and .com. Just let me know that you're from here so that I can follow you back. :)
So okay, this is a particularly long chapter. And I have to admit, this is my favourite one to write so far as I had a lot of fun writing it. I hope I did some justice to Sherlock's character - as I introduced his softer, more conflicted side to you.
I believe that there is only one chapter left after this. Or maybe two. I'm still undecided, but we'll get there eventually. ;) Enjoy reading!
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock, sadly.
Four hours later, John groggily woke up to his alarm clock. It almost slipped his mind that he had work today, and cursed the heavens above for having an uneasy sleep. He slowly set about his usual routine every morning. Make the bed, go downstairs, eat breakfast whilst reading the morning paper, brush his teeth before taking a shower, and get ready for work. But out of all of this, there was not a single post-it note from Sherlock. He scoffed and reprimanded himself for even thinking that, as he was still quite mad at the consulting detective. He had noticed right at once when he entered the kitchen that the post-its he attached from the day before had already vanished, and knew that his flatmate had read it.
It didn't bother him when he didn't see any post-its from Sherlock to him when he woke up. It didn't bother him when there was no boiled water and toast prepared for him when he went down from his bedroom. And it most certainly didn't bother him when he didn't leave any note for Sherlock. But of course, he'd have to be a coward to say that. John Hamish Watson is many a thing, but never is he a coward.
He was already dressed and ready to leave for the clinic when he found himself perched on a stool in the kitchen, black ink pen in hand and a red rectangle-shaped post-it placed on top of the message table. He was just about to write a quick note when he stopped himself last-minute. He fought against himself (To write or not to write? That is the bloody question, he thought to himself in agitation.) as his eyes darted from Sherlock's closed bedroom door to the paper and pen in his hand a couple of times. He started to chew on his bottom lip, eyebrows furrowed, and mind swirling with aimless thoughts.
A few long minutes later, he came to a decision. He breathed deeply and exhaled loudly and slowly, shaking his head before finally clicking his ink pen closed and inserting the post-it inside his jeans pocket. He stood from the stool and grabbed his coat that was draped in his armchair and exited the room through the kitchen door. But before he did so, he stopped at the threshold and cast a long, sad glance towards the room of his best friend, who was most likely still asleep. He shook his head once again and reminded himself why he was punishing Sherlock like this.
It's for his own good, he thought.
He secretly admits that he's hurt, and that he's hurting deeply. But his stubbornness and decision to make Sherlock suffer seemed a better idea than forgiving him easily. And as John went down the seventeen steps and exited through the front door of 221B, he couldn't help but be despondent over the fact that he had broken the one routine he swore that he'll never break.
Later in the afternoon, Sherlock woke up from an uneasy but much-needed sleep. He yawned and carefully sat up in bed, mindful of his healing ribs and still swollen knee. He checked his alarm clock and was surprised to read the time: 12:30pm. His stomach growled in hunger, and he groaned slightly at his sudden physical needs. He swung his legs off the bed and slowly stood up, ready to face the day once more.
The consulting detective went out of his room and was greeted by silence. His eyebrows furrowed when he didn't see or hear John, and suddenly remembered that he had work at the clinic today. He made a bee-line to the kitchen to prepare himself some toast and a nice cup of black coffee. As he was chewing on his toast, a sudden thought struck him. He started to look around the kitchen and living room, but eventually came out empty-handed.
Sherlock stood, feet bare and half-eaten toast in hand, in the middle of the room - a forlorn expression on his face as he realized that John hadn't left him a single post-it note.
He can't be that mad at me, can he? he asked himself. But before he could dismiss the question with a slight shake of the head, his subconscious interjected with, Of course he can. You were a downright arse yesterday.
He sighed heavily before his phone rang, signaling a new text message. He ran towards the kitchen to retrieve his phone from the table, immediately sliding his finger across the screen, and hoping against hope that it was John who texted him.
Sadly, it wasn't. Instead, it was from Lestrade.
We have a new case. Woman found beheaded in her parents' house, but parents are nowhere in sight. Text back ASAP. - Lestrade
Scowling, Sherlock texted back at once.
Dull. And I'm busy. Don't disturb unless Anderson has magically transformed into a woman. - SH
The reply was instantaneous.
You're such an arse. What happened? John finally kicked you in the balls? - Lestrade
If possible, Sherlock scowled deeper as he can imagine the DI's mocking tone. Gritting his teeth, he replied for the last time.
Obviously not, but I'm sure you know how that feels. Now - piss off. - SH
He waited for a minute, and when he was sure that the DI wouldn't text him for the next couple of weeks (he could deduce that much), he placed his phone inside the pocket of his blue robe and threw the rest of his toast in the trash after drinking the rest of his now warm coffee.
Sherlock's plan to get back into John's good side is to clean the entire flat. Of course, this coming from the consulting detective is a shocker. Though, he had half of his life ordering maids to clean this and that, or get this and that - adulthood changed him. In a way. Somehow.
Removing his robe and draping it over the coat rack, Sherlock cracked his knuckles and set about to work. He remembered one of the post-its John wrote to him (I like that you come out of your own way to make me toast and tea every morning) and also what Molly said about John ("... you have to know that John would sacrifice everything for you. Even if it's his happiness he's sacrificing."), and figured that if he cleaned the whole flat and bought his best friend dinner, then John will forgive him with a wide, boyish smile that seemed to light up the room and make Sherlock's heart skip a beat or two.
There's no denying it now, the detective knew he'd let himself fall for his flatmate, but he wouldn't say he regretted it because it was better than any drug he'd ever taken in his life.
Love, he thought, is what I never expected to feel. Least of all to my best friend.
He hadn't considered himself capable of falling in love before, having been single all his life - but that didn't mean he was a virgin. Oh, he experimented a lot during University and the years before he began working as a Consulting Detective - but it was just that. An experiment. Nothing more, nothing less.
But somehow, the ex-army doctor had slowly wormed his way into Sherlock's supposed calloused heart. John had unconsciously wormed his way in there and - piece by piece - broke down the barriers and walls and locks that Sherlock had built around himself. And before he knew it - he was feeling all human-y. He went to his Mind Palace as he vacuumed the living room and kitchen, searching for when and how it all began. He retraced the steps and eventually came to a stop, his movements stopping as well.
It all started the day John left his very first post-it. He remember being on a case the night before, and had fallen asleep at an awkward position on the couch. John had work at the clinic that time, so he left the yellow post-it on top of Sherlock's phone. He could still recall the message as if he had just read it yesterday:
Sherlock, there's breakfast on the table in case you're hungry. Don't blow up the flat, please. John
Gaping slightly, Sherlock relished in the fact that it had been nearly half a year since that day. It marked the beginning of what was already between them - growing gradually as the months passed of them communicating non-verbally like hearing-impaired individuals. But as always, both chose to ignore the huge elephant in the room. Rather, they both turned a blind eye on the situation and settled to living their not-so-peaceful lives as is. And Sherlock immediately saw his mistake. He had ignored - no, scratch that - his brilliant and sometimes idiotic mind ignored the subtle changes that had been happening for the past couple of months. He himself had ignored his subtle changes over the past couple of months.
Turning off the vacuum as it started to suck in the decaying body of a dead cockroach near the kitchen door, Sherlock cursed himself under his breath. Taking deep breaths then to clear his muddled mind, he set about to dusting the appliances and furniture. He cleaned his chemistry equipments and kept most of it in the bare cupboards. He forced himself to throw the severed feet and thumbs as he cleaned the almost empty fridge for almost an hour.
Afterwards, he washed the dishes and cleaned the pantry before going to the living room to fix the mess on the coffee table and bookshelves. Then, he separated the curtains to welcome in the afternoon heat of the sun, letting a small smile grace his still beaten-up features as he noticed how lighter and cleaner the room appeared.
Next, he grabbed the gloves and equipments needed for cleaning the bathroom under the sink. He spent close to two hours cleaning the bathtub, toilet bowl and sink before he jumped in the shower to take a quick bath. Due to his injuries, his movements were a little slower, and he carefully removed the bandages wrapped around his torso and knee. After twenty-minutes, he exited the bathroom wet and stark-naked (he's not a very conservative man behind closed doors) went inside his bedroom to change into his trousers and a navy blue button-up shirt. Begrudgingly, he cleaned his room as well - changing his bed sheets before dumping the dirty sheets in the hamper.
When he went out of his room fifteen minutes later, Sherlock went out through the kitchen door and up the stairs to John's bedroom. It was five-thirty in the afternoon, and John won't be home for another hour. Now, he has been inside the ex-army doctor's room a dozen times, but Sherlock couldn't help but feel a tiny ounce of guilt for trespassing in his best friend's room. He checked to see if there was anything he could do to clean or tidy things up a bit, but was unsurprised (and slightly disappointed, too) that John's room was as tidy and immaculate as ever.
The bed was made and the entire room was almost bare - save for the bedside table and closet and desk. But other than that, it was next to nothing. Sherlock was just about to exit the room when he spotted something from the corner of his eye. Turning around slowly, he noticed a small wooden box under John's bed. It wasn't completely hidden, per se, but it looked like it was hastily placed in there.
Curious and inquisitive as ever, Sherlock crept slowly back inside and kneeled carefully before reaching out a long, pale hand to take out the box from its hiding place. It was a simple mahogany box, give or take a couple of years old according to his keen deductions, and was quite pleased to see that it had no lock. Whatever John had kept in here must not be that important, then, if it had no lock and was poorly hidden. Smiling crookedly and a tad mischievously, Sherlock opened the box to take a peek, and was completely rendered speechless at what he saw.
The contents were not pictures of his family members or friends from Afghanistan, or even remembrances from his childhood - but it was all the post-it notes that Sherlock had written to John. Every single one of them; hidden and kept safely as if it's the most valued possession the ex-army doctor has ever owned. And the thought of John - simple, caring, anything but ordinary John - doing something he had considered pedestrian and dull and so human, had undoubtedly hit a nerve in Sherlock. With trembling hands, he carefully set down the wooden box, his vision becoming blurry all of a sudden. He shut his eyes tightly to stop the tears from escaping, but unfortunately one managed to, and it slowly cascaded down Sherlock's pale cheek before landing on the dusty hard wood floor.
He breathed in and out to get a hold of his emotions, and when he was certain enough that he won't be shedding any more tears, he slowly opened them and stared down at the contents again. Finally, he let a smile grace his face as he caressed the box almost lovingly, before he spotted a lone post-it attached to the lid of the box. Eyebrows slightly furrowed, he lifted the box again to read the message encoded in John's neat handwriting.
In case you're reading this (which I'm sure you are, knowing you), I hope you've deduced what this all means.
Finally closing the box and placing it back in the exact spot he found it in, Sherlock straightened himself up before exiting the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him. His brain started to work in overdrive as he immediately visited his Mind Palace - easily separating everything containing John and transferring it into a bigger room.
It didn't take a genius like Sherlock to understand the implication of John's message, though. And as he went down the seventeen steps to go grocery shopping in Tesco and buy some take-out at their favourite Thai restaurant, the consulting detective started to plot on how he can approach the situation verbally this time.
John had a very busy day at the clinic. He had more than twenty patients, and almost half of them were suffering from the flu that's been going around London due to the bipolar weather. He clocked out at six o'clock and awkwardly said farewell to his colleague and ex-girlfriend Sarah before going out of the small clinic, the collar of his coat turned up. He decided to walk home then, considering how things are still a bit not good between him and Sherlock. He kind of thanked God that he was busy at work today, because if he wasn't then his thoughts would often be wandering towards the dark-haired detective. He still felt bad about not leaving a post-it for him, but found that it was the necessary thing to do.
He thought about Mrs. Hudson and how he could pop in to her flat for a couple of minutes for tea, when he suddenly remembered that their landlady went to Cardiff to visit a friend of hers. She wouldn't be back for another two days, sadly. Sighing, John zipped up his coat and placed his hands inside his coat pockets as he continued to walk in a languid pace. It would take him another half hour to reach Baker Street, anyway. He might as well enjoy the walk.
By the time the doctor opened the door and stepped into the threshold of 221B, he was greeted with silence. This shouldn't surprise him, but knowing his flatmate, Sherlock should at least be doing something. Like playing his violin or watching crap telly, or even conducting some silly experiment in the kitchen. But not... this. Not silence.
He carefully walked up the stairs, and was greeted with closed doors. Furrowing his eyebrows, John slowly opened the living room door and was gob smacked at what he saw.
"What the bloody hell..." he muttered, gaping open-mouthed and wide-eyed as he felt his body go limp at the sight in front him.
To him, it looked like someone had unleashed the Tasmanian Devil and wiped the entire apartment... clean. He stepped into the threshold and surveyed his surroundings, still at an utter loss of words. The living room alone was orderly and clean, the books in Sherlock's bookshelves arranged neatly, and the coffee table devoid of any clutter. He observed the hard wood floors and was very impressed to see it dust and dirt-free. Someone must have vacuumed it then, as well as the carpet in the living room as it looked cleaner, somehow. He stepped into the kitchen and almost screamed in shock. The kitchen was almost completely bare. There were no chemistry equipments on the kitchen table, save for the fruit bowl placed at the center - but with no fruits, sadly. The counter was clean and spotless, as well as the pantry.
The sink was also clean and slightly damp, considering that someone had the decency to wash the dishes. John then walked towards the fridge and opened it - before slamming it shut once again - like the first time he saw a severed head. He closed his eyes and counted one to ten before opening them and the fridge, slowly this time. He blinked several times, staring quite dumbly at the extremely clean and extremely bare - save for the bottles of water, eggs, and a lonely carrot - fridge. He checked the contents, finding no severed human limbs in sight. He closed the door, then, and proceeded to check out the rest of the area. He opened the cupboards and was both relieved and surprised to see the recently cleaned equipments placed properly. After inspecting the kitchen, he went inside to pee in the bathroom, but was prepared this time to see just how neat it was. He even felt slightly guilty for peeing in the white, pristine toilet - he was that shocked, for lack of a better word, at the skill of whoever Sherlock hired to clean.
Just as he flushed the toilet and washed his hands at the sparkling sink, he heard someone go up the stairs and open the kitchen door. Thinking that it was his flatmate, he took his time drying his hands at the towel in the rail before going out of the loo. But once he stepped into the kitchen, he was taken off-guard once again that he actually took a step back in shock. Sherlock - brilliant, extraordinary, high-functioning sociopath (or so he claims to be) Sherlock - was carrying grocery bags from Tesco and a take-out bag from their favourite Thai restaurant.
He stood, gaping open-mouthed like a gold fish once again, as he stared up and down at his flatmate like he had grown an extra pair of limbs.
"Ah, John, hello," greeted Sherlock, smiling brightly when he saw his flatmate.
The consulting detective placed the bags of groceries on the counter as carefully as he could before placing the plastic bag containing their dinner on the table. He started to bring out the groceries and placing it in its rightful place, moving to the pantry to put two loaves of bread and their favourite kind of Jammie Dodgers. Then, he proceeded to the other bag and took out two cartons of milk and placed it inside the fridge. John just stood rooted to his spot, following the taller man with only his eyes. The doctor then observed how agile but a tad slower Sherlock was in his actions, and remembered that his best friend is still injured. Mentally slapping himself, he finally moved from his spot and made to help him with the groceries. But Sherlock apparently didn't want him to as he stopped him with a hand on the shorter man's wrist.
"It's fine, I've got it," he said reassuringly, casting an oddly comforting smile at the doctor. "Would you mind setting the table so we can eat our dinner after I put everything away?"
All John could do was nod his head before he turned around to take out the containers of their Thai food. He grabbed two dry plates from the dish rack and cutlery from the first drawer. When he was finished setting the table, he moved to the opposite side and sat himself down, content on just observing Sherlock move about the place. His lips quirked up a bit when he realized that Sherlock bought his favourite kinds of tea (Twinings' peppermint, jasmine, lemon, and green tea), and a large jar of Nescafe Gold for Sherlock. He also realized that their previously bare fridge now became almost full as he watched Sherlock place the tomatoes, cucumbers, broccoli, and carrots in the vegetable bin; a carton of eggs, butter, cheese, and cookies went in the fridge well; and the frozen products of beef, fish, and chicken into the freezer.
In short, Sherlock went into an all-out grocery shopping-spree, and John couldn't decide whether to be proud or suspicious. When the detective finally placed the jars of strawberry, raspberry, and blueberry jam in the cupboard, he removed his coat and scarf, hanging it on the coat rack before sitting down on the chair opposite John.
"You went grocery shopping," stated John as they began to eat their dinner. He couldn't resist any longer, he wanted to break the ice between them - no matter how upset and hurt he still is.
Sherlock looked up from the stir-fried noodles he was eating and, instead of replying in his usual sarcastic drawl, he nodded his head in affirmation - eyes oddly bright. Or maybe it's because of the light, thought John.
"Yes, I did," replied Sherlock, sounding extremely proud of himself as he smiled wide at his flatmate. "And I also cleaned the entire flat, which I'm sure you've noticed."
John choked on his shanghai rolls as he looked up at Sherlock through teary eyes, coughing loudly before he drank the bottle of water given to him.
"Are you alright?" asked Sherlock, an unmistakable hint of worry tinged at his tone.
John nodded as he breathed deeply, his mind still processing over the other man's words.
"I'm sorry - you cleaned the entire flat?" he asked instead, his eyebrows raised high as he regarded Sherlock with an astonished stare.
Flushing slightly at the look he was being given, Sherlock nodded slightly and looked down at his plate, feeling himself go stiff all of a sudden. He knew that it was a shock for John to find out that he cleaned - more so that he can clean - but he couldn't help but feel a slight twinge of hurt over the fact that the doctor looked, and sounded, disbelieving of his capability to do such a plebeian task such as cleaning and grocery shopping.
John, noticing how stiff Sherlock had become, immediately felt bad and berated himself for acting like a total dick just then. He brushed off that thought as he leaned forward in his seat slightly, a calm and reassuring look on his face.
"I'm sorry," he said sincerely this time. "I didn't mean it like that, Sherlock."
When his flatmate remained silent and unmoving, the doctor forced himself not to growl and instead settled on exhaling heavily and trying again.
"All I'm saying is that I... appreciate you doing this. Cleaning and grocery shopping - I know it's not really your area, and you consider it such dull tasks - but I, uh... I appreciate it. So... thank you, Sherlock." He finished off slightly awkwardly, his face turning a slight shade of pink as he rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, eyes downcast.
Sherlock's posture changed instantly and he looked up from his plate, his face softening when he met John's earnest and slightly-guarded eyes. He offered a half smile and muttered "You're quite welcome" before they resumed eating in a still awkward, but somehow bearable silence. The only sound that was made came from their cutlery and their chewing - and also the occasional cough or clearing of the throat when one deemed it necessary to do it in order to clear the tension between them.
"How are your injuries?" John asked suddenly as he took a sip from his water bottle. "Does it still hurt or do you need painkillers?"
Always the caring doctor, Sherlock thought fondly as he shook his head slightly.
"I still feel sore, but I'm better now," he replied, his baritone voice sending pleasant chills down John's spine.
Silence greeted them once again, and it was so evident that both still chose to ignore the ever-growing proverbial elephant in the room. But they both decided that it wasn't the right time to speak up yet.
John thought that this wasn't the evening he was expecting; as he imagined beforehand coming home to a messy flat - drinking tea and eating toast for dinner whilst completely ignoring Sherlock who continued to sulk on the couch, before going up the stairs to his room without a single word. He clearly didn't expect to come home to a remarkably clean and tidy flat, a fully-stocked kitchen and Thai take-out for dinner. He figured that it was Sherlock's way of apologizing, but soon dismissed the thought. He knew that Sherlock knew that he'll forgive him, but it wasn't that what John wanted from Sherlock. It was much more than that, and he hoped that his flatmate knew it, too.
What am I to you, Sherlock? he said to himself as he took a bite of his stir-fried noodles.
As for Sherlock, he didn't expect the evening to turn out like this. He had imagined beforehand coming home to the clean and tidy flat, John shocked and delighted to see him and his efforts - and the doctor finally telling Sherlock that he forgave him, and that all was well. But, none of that happened at all. Instead, he spent fifteen minutes being observed rather closely by the ex-army doctor as he put away the groceries to its rightful place, and then eating dinner in a tense but bearable silence.
The consulting detective immediately deduced his flatmate while they ate, and came to the conclusion that although John is very pleased with his efforts and knew his intentions behind it - it wasn't what the doctor was expecting. Sherlock knew that John knew he knew it wasn't an apology the latter wanted. It was much more than that. More than words, more than a clean flat and fully-stocked fridge. And John was right, he realized - the doctor didn't deserve the treatment he was getting from Sherlock.
He deserves more than post-it notes, and Cluedo, and dangerous cases. He deserves... he deserves Sherlock.
But how the bloody hell do I voice this out? he screamed frantically in his mind. Oh, dull humans. How you deal with situations like these must be utterly frustrating.
But it's John. And John is the most important person that has ever happened to him. Doing these tedious and pedestrian chores for and because of John didn't seem to mind Sherlock at all. And he doesn't mind, because he will never mind - as long as it's John.
He looked up from his plate to look at his flatmate, and was slightly surprised but secretly pleased when he saw the doctor looking at him as well - an unreadable expression written on his face. The thing with John is that - no matter how well Sherlock can deduce about him, or already knows about him - he can never be able to read John's expressions. And it both frustrated and fascinated him. A puzzle he has solved, but not completely solved at all. And Sherlock figured that he wouldn't mind not completely solving John at all - because he knew that he would never get enough of discovering new quirks about the brown-eyed man.
"John," he began in a soft voice.
They didn't break eye contact, and the detective saw something flash in the doctor's eyes. Expectation? Curiosity?
"Yeah, Sherlock?" answered John, voice just as soft.
The curly-haired man hesitated for a while, unsure on how to proceed as he didn't really think beforehand of what he wanted to say. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before he made up his mind in the end, opting to say what he deemed important to say at the moment.
"I'm sorry. About what happened yesterday, I... it was stupid of me, I know that now. And I should have informed you beforehand, but I... I'm just sorry, John. I really, really am."
There, he'd finally said it. But as he continued to look into John's eyes, he noticed the slight disappointment in those warm brown orbs, and how his shoulders slumped a little at what he said.
Nevertheless, John let a soft smile grace his features as he stared intently into Sherlock's blue-grey eyes. He shouldn't have expected, but he had hoped that Sherlock would say something other than an apology. But the doctor appreciated it, nonetheless. So instead of feeling bad for himself, he rejoiced in the fact that at least his best friend has learned his lesson.
He nodded his head once at him, indicating that he accepted what Sherlock said.
"I know, Sherlock," he replied understandingly, his smile becoming wider. "And it's fine, you know that. It's all... fine."
Returning his smile with a genuine one of his own, Sherlock felt his heart flutter at the way John's eyes brightened when he smiled back at him. And he felt right there and then, that things are going to be alright.
They may not be on the best of terms right now, but they're slowly getting there. And as long as they take slow and gradual steps, they'll eventually get to where they are both supposed to be. And that is with each other.
Please let me know what you think! Rare Sherlock hugs will be given to you if you do. :)