Hello reader! I feel so ashamed with myself because this story has been on the back burner for over a month now, but I hit myself on a wall of laziness, lack of inspiration and writer's block. There can be no excuses obviously, but the apology has been made. So this is just a filler that came to me just as I was about to write the chapter when Sherlock meets John's mum, but I couldn't help but put this in! I will try and be more regular with my updates, but no promises! Please R&R and enjoy!
John let himself relax as he picked up the steaming mug of tea. With milk, for once. He sighed as he relaxed his aching shoulder into the comfy armchair which he had claimed as his own. He was savouring a rare moment's peace whilst Sherlock was out on another case god knows where.
In the time Sherlock had been gone, John had managed to tidy the flat, clear Sherlock's experiments, sterilise the fridge and remove all the fingers that had been caught in the dishwasher fan. In truth, John missed Sherlock. The work was merely filling the excruciating amount of ticking time it took for the detective to return home. His detective, he reminded himself. The euphoria of his feelings for Sherlock still hit him like a rush of adrenalin every time he thought of them, and probably always would. Sherlock loved him. The mere thought sent a shiver down his spine.
As he lifted the mug to his lips, the door burst open behind him. John jumped half way out of his seat in surprise, tea sloshing all over his only clean pair of jeans. This better be important...
"John!" A familiar voice cried. Sherlock. When he was just about to relax...
"Yes Sherlock..." John was abruptly cut off as Sherlock darted across the room, snatched the mug of tea out of his hands and slammed it down on the battered coffee table. John was about to protest angrily when Sherlock grabbed him around the arms and hoisted John out of the chair, and proceeded to grab him round the waist from behind and squeeze the living daylights out of him.
"Sherlock. What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doing!" John managed to gasp between breaths. If Sherlock didn't stop soon, he was going to have the pleasure of meeting his breakfast for the second time that morning.
"Did you drink that cup of tea?" Sherlock yelled in his ear.
"What the...?"
"Did you drink that cup of tea?"
"Well thanks to you, I didn't get a chance!"
Sherlock stopped abruptly, and John let out a sigh of relief. "What the hell was that for Sherlock?"
"I thought you drank the tea." Was all Sherlock said.
"So why was it necessary to half squeeze me to death then?"
"Poison at the bottom of the mug."
"What kind of poison exactly?"
"Oh I don't remember, probably cyanide..." Sherlock dismissed it with a wave of his hand. John was not impressed.
"Cyanide at the bottom of my mug? Cyanide Sherlock! I could have died!"
"Well you didn't did you?" Sherlock stalked off to the kitchen, leaning over his experiments.
John sighed, looking down at the mug. The man really was impossible sometimes, but beneath his sociopath facade, he really did care.
Anyway, how had he known the exact moment at when to come in?
"You always drink your tea at 9am prompt every morning, John."
John chuckled, the novelty of the trick fading, but never truly wearing off. Perhaps the man really could read minds.