The first thought that comes to my mind is to deny everything. Turn it into a joke, change the subject, pretend that it never happened. But Sherlock is still looking at me expectantly, and, remembering all things I'd read about this week, I decide to lay my cards on the table, so to speak.
"As a matter of fact yes, Sherlock," I admit honestly. "But before I tell you everything, I think we should have a snack, okay?"
"Is that the attempt to distract me, John? You know perfectly well that I don't eat while I'm thinking."
"There's no need to decide right away, so I think it's perfectly safe for you to eat something."
Sherlock contemplates my words for a few moments, and then nods slightly, starting to pull his coat off. "Okay, John."
"Actually, I was thinking about going out," I elaborate, and my flatmate considers my request briefly.
"No," he says finally, hanging his coat on the accustomed hook at the back of the living room door. "I don't want us to have that type of conversation in public place. We can order a takeout from the restaurant, if you want something special."
"There are private rooms in some restaurants, you know," I say pointedly. "We can be completely alone."
"I said no," Sherlock bits off with irritation. "Why are you so persistent? What's wrong with us staying in the flat?"
"Nothing. I just thought…"
"What are you afraid of, John?" my friend interrupts, frowning.
"Me? Afraid? What gave you that idea, Sherlock?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant. Trust Sherlock to get straight to the core of the problem.
"Mostly your fidgeting," the detective remarks, pulling the phone out of his jacket's pocket. "Where from?"
"Sorry, what?" I manage to utter.
Sherlock briefly closes his eyes and sighs in exasperation. "The food, John. Where from do you prefer it? Or what kind?"
"Mediterranean, or something like that, I guess," I reply carefully, and my flatmate starts typing away.
"Is Greek okay?" he enquires, glancing at me briefly and returning his gaze to the screen.
"More then," I agree and move into the kitchen to clear the table.
"Not there," Sherlock says, halting me in my tracks. "In the living room. More comfortable."
"Only if you expect me to clean it first," I object.
"You were going to clean the kitchen table anyway," he points out. "What's the difference?"
"Fair point," I pivot on my heels and make a beeline to the living room table.
"Good," Sherlock comments, finally tearing his eyes from the phone's screen. "And I'm done, by the way."
'So much for your intention to be in control,' my inner voice smirks, causing me to stop and turn towards my flatmate.
"Good. You can lend me a hand with cleaning, then," I say calmly. "After all, it's mostly your stuff."
Sherlock frowns slightly, but joins me at the table, sorting out his belongings and putting them away. My things are being pointedly left untouched, though.
'Small steps and smooth moves, John. You shouldn't expect him to behave as you wish right away,' the inner voice comments, and I begin to wonder if I'd managed to finally lose it.
Deciding not to dwell on that subject right now, I clean away the rest of the stuff from the table. Just in time, by the way, because I hear a knock at the door the second after the table is finally cleared.
"That must be the delivery," Sherlock notes, coming over to the window to take a look outside.
"Good. I take care of the plates and cutlery; you get the door," I declare and move into the kitchen, practically sensing the weight of my friend's gaze on my back. "Problems, Sherlock?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," there's a slight noise behind me, and I have no doubt that my friend's arms are crossed on his chest now. "You're acting strange, John."
"Am I?" still not looking at him, I start to rummage through cupboards. "In what way?"
The second knock prevents Sherlock from answering. Huffing in annoyance, my flatmate stalks towards the door, disappearing downstairs and reappearing five minutes later with the deliveryman in tow.
"Just drop everything on the table," Sherlock commands, locating his wallet on the mantelpiece and paying for the delivery. "John, have you got some change to spare?"
Very clever move, Sherlock. "Of course," I tip the deliveryman and see him to the door, then run back upstairs. "Equals, Sherlock?"
He is totally absorbed in the process of laying the food out. "I've got the impression that this is the point you're trying to prove here, John."
"Not exactly. But let's eat first and talk later," I suggest, keeping my voice soft and even.
My friend looks at me intently for a few moments, and then nods. "Fine. Shall we, then?"
"Of course," I take a seat at the table and Sherlock goes to the chair across of mine. "Enjoy your meal."
"You too, John," he answers, grabbing his fork. "I hope that my choice pleases you..."
Surprisingly enough, my flatmate joins me in the process of clearing the table after our meal is finished. He doesn't look at me and keeps silent, but I clearly see from his posture that he's not pleased with the situation at all. So when our little cleaning operation is finished, I decide to distract him by putting my arm around his shoulders and escorting him to the sofa. He looks at me briefly, but doesn't protest; when we reach our destination he flops down onto the sofa, gets himself comfortable and waits for me to get into my accustomed chair.
But I'm not done with surprising him yet, and, as I lift his feet in order to settle down at the end of the sofa, Sherlock's eyes widen slightly, then widen a bit more as I place his feet on my lap.
However, he regains his composure quite fast, and proceeds to answer the question I had asked before the arrival of a deliveryman.
"You're insistent on trying to order me around, John. I would like to know why," Sherlock declares, steepling his fingers and fixing me with the piercing stare.
"I wasn't ordering, I just asked you to help me."
"It certainly didnt't sound like a request, John. I'm assuming it's all connected to the materials you've been researching the last week?" he enquires, raising an eyebrow.
There's no point in trying to hide something from you, Sherlock, is there? "Does that mean that you have bothered to read them already?" I counter. "And by the way, I distinctly remember our agreement about you respecting my personal space..."
"You leave your laptop in the living room quite often. And the living room was considered to be a common area, if I remember correctly."
So he definitely has read them. Well, maybe it was better that way. No need for tip-toeing around the subject. "And the small issue of the password still doesn't tell you anything?"
Sherlock snorts. "Aside from the fact that you're trying to be inventive – no. Oh, and I should definitely advise you to try out 'Purple Hell'. At least it will make my life a little more interesting."
He's winding you up, John. Keep calm; don't give in. "Is that supposed to be a joke, Sherlock?" I ask, feeling the slight twitches in my left hand. So much for trying to stay composed, then. Damn.
Sherlock sits up abruptly, bending his legs and hugging them to his chest. "Initially – yes. But judging by your left hand…"
"Don't even start that, Sherlock. Mycroft was quite enough for me, thank you very much."
"Alright, I won't. But that doesn't change the fact that your hand is trembling. Therefore I can safely assume that you aren't pleased with me now."
He's not only winding me up, he's trying to make me lose my temper, I realise suddenly. But why is he doing that? What's the point?
Oh. Of course. I should've guessed. "Are you testing me, Sherlock?" I ask carefully, and his face lights up with the broad smile for a few moments.
"Finally," he chuckles. "Took you long enough. Still… quite impressive, I should say."
Pushing the limits, Sherlock-style. Actually, I was supposed to act like that, not him, but we'll work on that. At least it shows that he isn't opposed to the idea. "So you've been doing some reading too, I presume. And what's your opinion on that matter?"
"Amusing. But the more important question is why it started to interest you all of a sudden."
"I kind of liked the idea," I say, trying to sound nonchalant, but obviously not quite making it, because my friend frowns slightly.
"And you're thinking that we can try that out, aren't you?"
Straight to the point, then. I can do that. "As a matter of fact, I do. Is that a problem?"
Sherlock's eyes suddenly aren't smiling anymore. "Actually, yes. I'm not interested, John, not in the slightest. You want to play games – fine. But not with me. I've got enough on my plate to waste the time on such pointless things."
"Pointless?" I enquire bluntly.
"For me – yes. I can perfectly understand your motives in wanting this, but I should disappoint you, I'm afraid. Because I've no intention to satisfy them whatsoever, John."
"And my motives are…"
"Self-assertion as a primary motive, obviously, and the secondary… You actually want to change ME. For my own good, I suppose. Sorry, not going to happen. I like the things as they are now."
I wait for him to finish, then push myself up from the sofa and turn to face him. "Brilliant deduction, Sherlock, apart from one thing," I say calmly, even managing to smile a little. "I don't need to assert myself, and even if I did, I wouldn't have tried to do that at YOUR expense. As for changing you – again, even if I had wanted to do that, it would have been, as you've already said, absolutely pointless. You want to know why? I'll tell you. To put it simply, with all your intelligence you still lack one very important thing. And unfortunately, that thing can't be thought here…" I reach out and touch his forehead lightly, "It should be felt here," now I place my palm over my heart. "But sometimes it takes courage to let yourself feel. And that's exactly the thing you are incapable of, Sherlock."
I turn around and slowly make my way towards the stairs, suddenly feeling spent and defeated. Well, at least I have tried.
"John," my flatmate calls after me as I finally reach the door. "John, wait. I didn't mean…"
"Don't, Sherlock," I say, not bothering to stop. "Just don't. You've said enough already."
"But…"
"Tomorrow, Sherlock," I say tiredly. "We'll talk about that tomorrow, I promise."
He doesn't answer, and I make my way upstairs, get into my room and close the door. Not bothering to undress, I fall on my bed and close my eyes…
A/N: Okay, a small confession here: John's phrase about '...can't be thought here... should be felt here' was taken from the movie "The Librarian: Quest for the Spear". No copyright infringement is intended, of course :) Also, "The Librarian" trilogy is one of my favorites. :D