Sorry this one took longer than expected. Again, Rayne and I adore the reviews and the subs and the favourites. We really appreciate them and they make us smile a lot.
Sherlock slammed open the door to John's room. He marched in and pulled the duvet out of John's grasp.
"John, wake up."
"Nuuh." John groaned.
"Get up!" Sherlock said, tweaking the duvet in his hand.
"Nuuh." John scrambled for the duvet, pulled it away from Sherlock and pulled it over his head. He screwed his eyes shut and willed himself to sleep.
"Get out of bed, John."
"Nuuh." John moaned, hiding under his duvet.
"I've made breakfast." Sherlock said slyly, "Full English."
"Sherlock..." Sighed John, "Why today? I need to sleep and... You make breakfast."
"I needed something to take my mind off of the press conference. It didn't work." Sherlock laughed. "I'm still thinking about it."
John dragged himself out of bed, dressed in just his boxers, and stretched. He picked up his dressing robe and wrapped it around himself. As he trailed out of his bedroom and walked into the kitchen, Sherlock followed him.
There, sure enough, was a fully cooked breakfast upon the living room table. Nothing appeared burnt or poisoned. From what John could tell anyway. "And you haven't done anything to it?" Sherlock looked at him sternly. "I only ask because last time you made me something you drugged me and had me hiding in a cage."
After confirming that the meal wasn't going to affect him in any way shape or form, John sat down and tucked in. It was better than he expected. Looking outside he could see that the streets were still dark. The luminous street lights beaming in through the windows. He hadn't glanced at the time yet. Forgetting to even look at his bedside clock before he was forced away from the land of nod. From the kitchen Sherlock somehow answered John's unspoken question. "It's twenty past six if you want to know."
John almost choked on a fried tomato. "Twenty past six? The conference isn't until three!"
"I know," Sherlock strode back into the living room. Taking his usual crouching position on the black chair. "I was bored."
"You're always bored."
"Not always. Not when I have a case." Sherlock said, pacing up and down.
"But you don't have one." John said, pausing. He looked down at his plate, the food wasn't half bad. He looked up at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow. "Where did you learn to cook?"
"It's only another science. Vague and uninteresting, but necessary." Sherlock laughed. "Now, finish eating. I've got an idea on this case."
"This case? Oh, the sociopath that likes poetry." John nodded. "What's the idea?"
"Two things, John. Two things. One; never place your opponent in a box without knowing anything about them. Two; shut up and eat. I want to use you after this."
John choked on a sausage. "Wha-"
"Eat!" Sherlock commanded. "Hurry up!"
John stuffed the rest of his food into his mouth as he tried not to blush a deep crimson. Mycroft would've heard that one, and no doubt he would tease John. Sherlock began to pace again, watching his feet as he walked.
"Why don't you eat, Sherlock?"
"Don't eat when I'm working. Digestion slows me down." Sherlock snapped.
"So you've said... but you're not working." John said, waving his fork at Sherlock. "This is a man who needs food and rest." Sherlock shot John the foulest look John had ever seen. "And some nicotine."
"Reminds me," Sherlock jammed his hand into a draw of the desk, "this was a four patch problem. And I had to keep replacing the patches. I need you to get me more." He threw the empty box on the table. "I'll need them before the conference."
"Sherlock, I won't go and buy you nicotine patches."
"Why not?"
"I'm a doctor, Sherlock. I can't allow you to do that." If looks could kill, John Watson would be a dead man. "Don't give me that look. It was bad enough when you use to use three at a time but four and still no food? No."
Sherlock walked back into the kitchen and began rummaging through the kitchen cupboard. He knew he had another stash somewhere. Hopefully John would not have found them in the last two and a half years. Reaching into the back of the cupboard near the fridge he felt his fingers touching the corner edges of a small cardboard box. Jackpot. "You won't have to go to the shop after all, John."
John rolled his eyes and he looked down at his plate. He only had the mushrooms left. John didn't like mushrooms very much but he felt obligated to eat them. It's not everyday you get cooked a meal by Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock pulled out the small box and opened it up. Inside were the precious patches that enabled Sherlock to think without being distracted by his body's needs and wants. Mind over matter. As always. He walked between the living room and the kitchen, pacing up and down.
John watched him pace, while eating the mushrooms. The soft squashing in his mouth made him feel slightly sick, or maybe that was his worry for Sherlock. Sherlock's clothes were ruffled and creased, he had been up all night.
"Sherlock, maybe you should get dressed for this event. It's not like you're going to be allowed to show up in a sheet..." He suppressed a laugh. Sherlock would've killed John several times over with this glare, if look could've killed.
"I wouldn't be in a sheet." Sherlock complained, "This one is of importance."
"And Buckingham Palace wasn't?" John raised an eyebrow.
"I solved the case, didn't I?"
"Technically? I don't think so. Not how they wanted nor did you get what they wanted." Placing his knives and forks down, John stood up and went to the kitchen. Putting his plate into the sink. He could hear Sherlock complaining in the next room.
"I solved it, John."
"After the introduction of a very annoying woman which ended up with her being forced to relocate to America." As he wheeled back into the living room John swore he saw a slight smile play on the detective's lips. It soon disappeared. John thought about the idea of Sherlock knowing she was dead but that wouldn't explain the smile. Not at all. "I'm going to get changed. Considering it's only seven in the bloody morning and you got me up."
Closing the door, John went to his draws and picked out a nice looking jumper he might wear for the day. Hopefully he would get the privacy to get dressed. That was of course after he had had his shower. He chuckled as he remembered the times in which Sherlock had burst into his room many times to find John awkwardly putting on a jumper or getting changed for bed. He really should have invested in a lock.
Sherlock watched John walk out of the room and into his bedroom. His eyes followed the shadows around the flat, nothing was quite as interesting as shadows. In fact, he recalled a few cases that he had needed the shadows to solve. That one with the American had left him no choice but to watch the shadows and follow them. He smiled, cases like that were always fun.
"Sherlock, are you going to shower or can I?" John shouted, pulling Sherlock from his memories.
"You go, you go." Sherlock sighed. He picked up his violin and began to play a merry tune, one of John's favourites of his own compositions. John had noted, one day whilst they were at the theatre, that the stage had lost a fine actor, the law a great lawyer and music a brilliant composer. The complement had made Sherlock smile, it was almost unexpected.
"Fine," John shouted, "but you'll have to shower before the press conference."
"I'll go after you, I want to play." Muttered Sherlock, moving effortlessly into a slow and sombre piece of his creation.
John walked into the bathroom and stripped himself. He climbed into the shower and listened to Sherlock's violin as he washed. His short fingers kept being waved around, like he himself were conducting Sherlock. This is what happened when John listened to Sherlock's playlist over and over. Now, something like the Bee Gees made John feel better but for months on end he listened to Sherlock's classical, orchestral music. Now it was coming back on him.
John almost forgot about washing until the composition ended and Sherlock moved on to a new one. Equally as beautiful. He reached for his usual soap to find it had been replaced to one of lavender. His old one was no where to be found. Not that he minded. His old one was carbolic and very plain. Sherlock's was wonderful.
After washing himself, John climbed out of the shower and reached for his dressing gown. He still used the silly little stripped one that Sherlock had once made fun of. Sherlock once compared him to some form of bee that John couldn't even recall. Not that it mattered on the species. The fact Sherlock knew a lot about bees but not about the universe made him chuckle.
Sherlock had stopped playing by the time John vacated the bathroom. As John made his way to his room he could see Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Already shirtless and entering the bathroom. Still didn't understand the basic rules on decency, John noted as he shut his door to change.
Sherlock hummed a wonderful number by Bach whilst in the shower. A piece that he had learnt as a small boy. He preferred the soft tones whilst performed on a harpsichord but the violin had always called to him. The soft tunes of Goldberg Variations danced around the room as Sherlock reached for his soap. Obviously used no less than fifteen minutes ago.
As he reached for a towel, the soft sounds still humming from his lips, he realised how messy John still was. Things were disorganised and the towels in a horrible array. It wasn't helping. The conference meant nothing to Sherlock. It was coincidental but the mess John was producing wasn't helping his thought process.
"John, you need to tidy up." Sherlock said as he padded out of the bathroom. His hair was slicked back and still dripping wet. He wore nothing but a single towel wrapped around his waist.
"I would," John said opening his bedroom door. "But I'm not mental."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John was wearing a pale blue Paul Smith shirt and a pair of light grey suit trousers. He carried a light grey suit jacket with pink lining. It was a smart attire, one that - if it had been on anyone but the man that stood next to an almost naked Sherlock Holmes would've - looked good. Sherlock smiled and quickly walked into his room.
"I'm not mental either." John heard Sherlock mutter. "I was tested."
"Did your mother get you tested?" John giggled.
Sherlock stuck his head out of his room. "No, she didn't care. Mycroft had me tested to see if I was actually... mentally deficient."
"And you weren't." John nodded. "Makes sense."
"I wasn't. I'm only a highly functioning sociopath." Sherlock nodded before withdrawing his head.
"Perfect sense." John sighed before collapsing into his chair.
"What happened to that jumper you had picked out?" Sherlock yelled out causing John to stare at his room in worry. Sherlock had been in his room. Again. Whilst John showered. What if he had seen the scarf by the bed? It was still there when John had gotten changed. Hopefully Sherlock had missed this one thing.
"Erm. I thought I'd better dress smart!" John called back. "You know? Press and everything." John twiddled his thumbs in the silence that followed. Should he go change? Did he not look right?
Unsure what to do with himself, John picked up his laptop and opened the lid. He had a wonderful idea. If he did this correctly then his blog would update as soon as the press release was over. If not then nobody would understand until afterwards. Either way it didn't matter. He tapped four simple words on his laptop before clicking a button that would delay the post and shutting the laptop lid. To him those four words were simple and yet perfect.
I told you so.
John smiled to himself as he waited for Sherlock to get ready.