Chapter three

Sherlock slept soundly, waking later than usual, perhaps due to the unfamiliar emotional upheaval of the previous night. He sniffed. Yes, it was the fragrant aroma of toast. Puzzled, he rose and drawing his dressing gown tie-belt around his waist ventured into the living room and the kitchen of his flat. Sure enough, there was John, determinedly buttering toast and searching for mugs in the cupboard. He swung around to look at Sherlock and froze.

Unbeknownst to Sherlock he was terrifying to John. Up close he was overwhelming; tall and broad-shouldered with an untamed ruffle of black curls descending over his forehead and his strangely glacier-coloured eyes, which were at that moment fixed intently on John. To John he looked like a wolf; a large, threatening Alpha wolf. John quailed. Panic rose in his throat and he gulped.

Sensing something of the sort was happening, Sherlock hastily backed into the living room and began to make a show of looking for the morning papers. When he glanced up again, John, somewhat recovered, was bravely offering a mug of tea. Relieved, Sherlock accepted it with casual thanks and remarked on the light rain falling outside. John nodded but still awkward, he didn't speak; he looked at the toast and then back to Sherlock. Sherlock smiled with appreciative pleasure and the immediate tension passed; they sat down together to share breakfast and the papers.

By mid-morning John, looking pale and tired once more, returned upstairs. Sherlock took him a cup of tea in the early afternoon and found him soundly sleeping atop the bed. He didn't stir when Sherlock pulled the duvet up around his shoulders so Sherlock set the tea on the nightstand and quietly left.

In the late afternoon Sherlock was finalizing some experiment notes when John appeared in the living room doorway. He hesitated uncomfortably and seemed to be trying to say something so Sherlock smiled encouragingly and waited.

"I…I was wondering if…you would like me to make dinner for you. If not, it's okay, I mean…I…I know I'm not a very good cook. Harvey says…" He stopped, confused.

Dear God, if Sherlock ever had the misfortune to come face-to-face with Harvey Smith again he would not be held accountable for his actions…

"If you feel like making something for us to eat, I'm sure I will enjoy it. But why bother unless you feel like it? I'd had it in mind to order take-away, perhaps Chinese…"

"Well…I, um, like to cook…"

"Then I know I shall enjoy it. Please feel free to do what you like in the kitchen, whenever you want John. In fact, you may do whatever you please here at 221B." Sherlock smiled at him, reached for his violin and turned with deliberate casualness to the window.

An hour later, soothing violin music floating from the living room and the appetizing aromas of ginger and citrus wafting from the kitchen, John placed two plates of steaming lemon chicken with rice and gingered pea pods on the table. He cleared his throat awkwardly and as Sherlock turned from the window toward him, he indicated self-consciously that Sherlock should sit.

Sherlock, in fact, was not hungry, he had too much on his mind, but he would have sooner cut off his right arm than refuse John's meal, so he ate with every indication of enjoyment. And it was delicious. He found to his surprise that despite his lack of appetite he did enjoy it.

They were nearly finished their meal when Sherlock spoke up, "John?" John looked anxiously at him. "Would you say that −," he couldn't even force the man's name across his lips, "your ex-husband…that he is a man of good judgement?"

John was unhesitating, "No."

"What about his character John, is he a thoughtful or sincere man?"

John was feeling puzzled. "No. No, he isn't Sherlock. You met him; he is like that all the time. He…" He looked away uncomfortably. He had said too much.

"John." Sherlock surprised John by reaching out and taking his hand. "Given what you've just told me, would you be willing to consider that the things Harvey said about you−to you, were wrong? That they were not true?"

John sat back in his chair and tried to pull his hand from Sherlock's firm grip. Shame flooded his face.

Sherlock's hold tightened in distress. "John. No. I'm not mocking you. I'm sincere. Please! I just don't say things the right way sometimes, I'm sorry!"

John relaxed slightly then mumbled, "I see what you mean." Sherlock could see his brows draw together in slight confusion. Then, still looking at the floor, he said quietly, almost sadly, "You're right, of course."

Sherlock looked down at their hands, still linked firmly together. "John, I can tell you something about me. You might be interested…" He looked up to gauge John's reaction. John was still not willing to make eye contact but he nodded.

Sherlock hesitated and then said, "Many people who know me−including myself−believe I'm a sociopath…some even say a psychopath−"

John's head shot up. "What?! You are not, Sherlock! That is not true! And I'm a social-worker Sherlock, so I know a bit about it!"

Sherlock was surprised at John's vehement reaction. He said slowly, "I know that now, John. Over the past few days…since you have been here…I have discovered for myself that it isn't true. I was wrong to believe what other people said about me. I formed the opinion based on insufficient evidence, it would seem."

John stared at him for a moment and then smiled. He squeezed Sherlock's hand and smiled wider when Sherlock responded in kind. And to Sherlock it was as though the sun was suddenly shining on Baker Street even though the January night outside was rainy and dark.