A/N: OK yes, another one, but there's a good chance there won't be another update on Monday or maybe Tuesday, either, I'm quite busy and I wanted to shove this chapter on, too. SO THERE.

Word Cout: 700+

Pairing(s): pre-Sherlock/John

Warning(s): Well I hope you aren't tired of fluff yet. Also I guess slight partial nudity...?

Mundane

You wouldn't guess it, but the day John realized he loved Sherlock was incredibly mundane.

It was a Saturday night and it was going nothing like either party expected. John had planned on going out that night with Lauren, the mousy girl who he'd been dating for a few weeks; Sherlock had planned on doing an experiment involving a human brain and some fingernails that John had very specifically not asked about. However, he'd stood Lauren up one too many times that week while chasing Sherlock through the streets of London and Molly had somehow managed to misplace the brain he was supposed to be picking up from the morgue that morning. And so, by some twist of fate, both men ended up flopped on the couch watching a marathon of Britain's Next Top Model and inhaling Chinese take-out.

John had been disappointed about Lauren (although perhaps not as much as he should have been) but he found that he was actually enjoying the situation, even if that situation found him watching reality TV in nothing but sweat pants with another man's legs draped over his lap. In fact, he enjoyed it very much more than he should have.

Sherlock seemed to be having a bit of a ball himself, although he wouldn't say so if John asked. He was in the middle of a rant about how obvious it was who was going to get kicked off ("Just look at the way the judge's eyebrows twitched! Look at it! John, this show is so obvious!") and about the girls ("They're all so bitchy and conceited and skinny. Why are they so skinny, John? What do you mean I'm that skinny – I'm not that skinny! These girls clearly do not eat. I eat sometimes, John! You're missing… you're missing the point!") and looking quite animated about the whole thing. John didn't think he'd ever seen him look more comfortable than he did just then, and he wondered why that was. Perhaps it was the beer they were sharing (Sherlock was a bit of a lightweight when it came to alcohol, apparently). He looked more unkempt than John had ever seen him, hair sticking out in every direction and clad in nothing but a bathrobe and some boxers (that John was fairly sure were actually his but didn't want to say anything), and, most miraculous of all, actually eating Chinese food. It turned out he had quite an affliction for noodles and had devoured not only his own Chow Mien but also half of John's (to only half-hearted objections) but an objection to anything and everything red meat, banishing his steak pieces to John's plate. Despite the absolute mundane scenario John found himself looking at Sherlock with something close to awe; the detective eventually tore his eyes away from the tele for long enough to notice and his eyebrows scrunched.

"What are you looking at John?" Sherlock asked. John blushed. He didn't know why, exactly – if anything Sherlock should be blushing, he was the one lounging around with his limbs spread out everywhere – but there it was. Sherlock's eyebrows arched farther. "What?"

Just staring at you, no big deal.

"There's sauce on your face," John said instead, although there wasn't, and reached forward to rub his finger over the edge of Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Thanks," he said, cautiously. When John just smiled at him he turned back to the show, squishing his face into something between disgust and amazement. "Dear God, five nose jobs? Look, it's obvious! People are stupid, John." John rolled his eyes, only to catch a glimpse of Sherlock's toes curling on his lap. "Not all people, but most people. Are there any more noodles?"

John wasn't sure why it was – never would be – but that was the moment it dawned on him. He loved Sherlock Holmes. Not just the cases, not just the amazing, thrill-ride of a lifestyle he provided, not just the genius, not just the mind but the man. And, as strange as it would doubtlessly be later on, for that moment John felt nothing but bliss at the revelation. Even if nothing comes of it, he's glad. At least now he can admit it – John has got to be completely mad. He zoned out, lost in the feeling.

Sherlock, sensing opportunity, stole the last of his noodles.

Reviewing is a pretty mundane activity, but I still appreciate them.