John woke early on a bright and uncharacteristically calm day. It was a Sunday, day of rest, though John rather suspected he would be doing nothing of the sort. He heard a clattering of pans from downstairs, and heaved his sleep-drugged body from under the covers. Something smelled distinctly of burning, as John descended the wizened stairs. This was his daily routine, John would wake hours after Sherlock, and would first do a mental scan of his surroundings to make sure the house was still standing, then he would creep downstairs and check on his friend, who was generally engaged in an experiment, either having just blown up the microwave or some other household appliance, or in the process of doing so. After the hazard was averted, he would return upstairs to have a shower, all he could do was hope that everything was still there when he came out again. An aqueous light rippled off the bland beige wallpaper and ran down the steps in a frenzied cascade, lapping at the banisters and sloshing against the closed door. Upon opening said door he was confronted by a sublimely humorous sight.
The great Sherlock Holmes slouched against the mantelpiece. One arm cradled the skull from the little shelf, the other was folded defensively against his chest, which rose and fell rhythmically with his steady breaths. For once, John observed, he looked well rested. His graphite grey eyes were bright and glittering with life, though he was pouting. Yes, Sherlock was pouting, the sight was very amusing to John as he coasted across the room to the entrance to the kitchen. Irene flitted about the room, fanning a smoking pan which fizzled and hissed with malice. Her hair was pulled loosely into a bun, stray curls of burnished chestnut coiled around her face like smooth snakes. Her cheeks were flushed pink and she was panting with exertion. She wore dark jeans and a baggy t-shirt, belonging to the detective no doubt. John looked suitably shell-shocked, and went to pull a saucepan off the heat which threatened to explode. "Uh, smells good?" John offered, lifting the scalding lid of the saucepan and peering inside. Irene chuckled, "God, I hope not!" She said, throwing him a damp tea towel for his slightly burnt fingers. John was confused, he watched Irene glide to a halt and melt against the countertop. "For a start, that's not edible," she said, as John took a cautionary sniff of the contents of the saucepan. "To be honest I should imagine it's toxic." John studied the liquid in the saucepan with a morbid fascination; it looked like some kind of greenish yellow soup, then a severed finger bobbed lazily to the surface.
John fought the urge to vomit, and placed the saucepan back on the stove to finish simmering. "Not toxic." Sherlock grumbled, setting down the skull gently, contemplating the vacant and gloomy sockets with an unhealthy fondness and compassion. He drew the mental monologue with his absent friend to a close, running a long finger along the pale cranium, caressing the dips and crevasses in the bone. He sauntered into the kitchen, taking charge of the outwardly chaotic mess. "Morning, John!" he said cheerily, sweeping past him to the stove, where he bustled about, lifting the lids of the pans, drawing a long, exaggerated breath to pull the scent into his lungs for inscrutable analysis. Satisfied with his observations, and having apparently recovered from his sulk, he moved towards Irene, planting a tender kiss on her jaw and whisking the smouldering pan from her fingers. It was then that John noticed the green and brown smears over the work surfaces and cupboards. "Sherlock, what the bloody hell have you done to the kitchen?" He squeaked in dismay.
"It's an experiment!" Sherlock quipped, mopping the substance in an attempt to redeem himself, but only succeeding in smearing it further.
"It's an abomination!" John exclaimed, eyeing the dripping walls. Sherlock spluttered something inaudible in what might have been Latin, and took to buffing the countertops diligently with a vigorous hand. Sherlock was certainly not blessed with describable domestic capability, but John knew he did try, at least there was that. John turned and headed upstairs to shower and change, leaving the pair in the demolition site that was the kitchen.
Irene swung her legs playfully from the countertop while Sherlock worked around her, lifting her legs in one swift motion, catching her back as she flailed and gave a little gasp of surprise in another, smiling ruefully at her disgruntled features.
John descended the stairs for a second time that morning, longing for a cup of tea in his favourite striped mug, and dismissing the desire in recognition of the biohazard that was the kitchen of 221B Baker Street. This time nothing smelt like it was on fire, he so wanted to take that as a positive aspect, but John knew this probably just meant that something else had gone wrong besides that, though it may be a small improvement. The soprano wail and mournful drawl of the violin greeted his eager ears as he entered the living room.
Irene sighed contentedly, reclining deeply into Sherlock's side as he ran the slender bow against the delicate strings of his violin in a sorrowful yet beautiful symphony. The consulting detective lay erratically, upside down on the sofa; his feet were propped against the headrest, his head of soft curly hair lolled over the seat of the chair. He paid the instrument no heed as the bow glanced dutifully over the strings, and instead focused on the thoroughly pleasant weight of Irene's head resting against his hard, flat stomach. Her contact sourced a satisfying heat which spread across his chest to his heart that burned furiously with his love for her. Sherlock allowed his mind to marvel at how suited they were to each other, how sublimely their bodies fitted together. The smooth dip of his chest mirrored the curve of her elegant shoulder and incline of her long neck, like pieces of an intricate puzzle. For it was a puzzle, love. He had long believed he was incapable of such irrevocable emotion, a sociopath. And while he longed to uphold that suitably isolating title, he could not deny his own heart the right to beat for another. John understood, he had always understood, always secreted a doubt as to his friend's apparent devotion to his work, and now Sherlock knew it to be true. Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes had a heart, and it was full and functioning soundly, encompassing his deep-seated denial of this obvious truth. Moriarty had been wrong about one thing, though he had recognised that Sherlock Holmes had a heart he had been mistaken in presuming that heart was weak and unhindered by torment, an instrument to toy with and exercise its limits. Sherlock knew his heart now, knew of its capabilities, its true endearment to Dr John Watson, his Doctor, his closest friend, and one Irene Adler, who was so much more.