In the morning, John woke up to the alarm on his phone. He didn't remember setting it the night before, but there isn't much from the night before he can remember if he was being honest with himself. John slowly sat up, holding his hand against his head. Sherlock was in his chair, dressed much like he was the last time John remembered seeing him (he didn't remember much after his first bottle of wine).
"Tea?" Sherlock asked, holding out a mug with steam rising over the rim.
"You made me tea?" John asked, reaching out and wrapping his hands around the earth porcelain. He took a sip; it was warm and soothing; peppermint with no sugar and a splash of cream rather than milk.
"I made myself some; knew you would be up soon, so I made a cup for you as well."
"You made yourself tea?"
"I am an adult, John; English too. I know how to make tea."
John laughed, and grabbed his head again at the vibrating pain that pulsed through it, "yes, but you never do."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and took a drink from his own mug, "a simple thank you would have sufficed."
"Thank- wait a minute; what did you do?"
"Made tea?" Sherlock answered slowly, "Are you still drunk?"
"The last time you made me tea was after you tried to do the washing yourself and shrunk my jumpers."
"I have not attempted any washing."
"Cigarette ash in the gold box from my grand mother?"
"You hid that away remember?"
"Right. Are you sure you haven't done anything?"
Sherlock sighed, and bit down on his bottom lip, trying to hide from John any disappointment he was feeling in John's inability to appreciate the nice thing Sherlock had gone out of his way to do. "I'm positive, John. I just thought you would like some tea."
John drank the last of what frankly was a damn good cuppa, and slowly got up from the couch. He knew that he had hurt Sherlock feelings, but he wasn't going to apologize, because that would mean Sherlock would have to admit to having a feeling and John would never do that to him.
"Well, thank you Sherlock." He said, and pressed an apologetic hand against his shoulder. He went through the kitchen, and into the bathroom to take a hot shower, and wash away the night before. John hadn't meant to drink as much as he had for no reason, on a random Thursday night; but then again, he never did mean to drink that much on any given night. Showered and dressed, John went back downstairs to find Sherlock scratching away at already filled sheet music. John had picked one up one day, and tried to make sense of all the notes and scribbles, but he could never quite figure it out.
John took one last look at Sherlock before having to run out for the carpool. He was still in his blue striped pyjamas, and an inside out grey tee shirt, a beige and black dressing gown open, and the belt hanging against his thighs and hitting at his knees. He was quite obviously lost in his own thoughts inside his head, as he often was. John knew that Sherlock worked hard to get to where he was, and he worked even harder to stay there; to be thirty two, seven years out of formal training, and be the conductor of his own orchestra (never mind that his brother was the director- Sherlock deserved every thing he had either way), took a dedication that John could never imagine for himself. And then there was the music he composed, that was sold and played, though never nearly as well as when under Sherlock's hand, by other orchestras, professional and academic alike. Sherlock was a musical genius, a prodigy from a young age, and John admired him greatly for it. John, however, was jealous that the berk got to stay home, and didn't even need to dress for a great deal of the year in order to do his work. While John had to wake early five days a week, dress professionally, and face whatever the English weather gods had in store for him- (rain usually.)
"I'll stop at Tesco on my way home. Do you need anything?" John asked, holding the door open, and seeing Greg and Mary standing at the bottom of the steps waiting for him.
"Pencils. The green ones with the fine led and the black rubbers."
"Yea, they don't sell those at Tesco."
"No, but they sell them at your school shop. Three packs. Oh, and those coffee flavoured biscuits."
John sighed, "Pencils and disgusting biscuits. Got it."
John closed the door and jogged down the stairs, "sorry. Let's go."
Mary rolled her eyes and opened the door for the boys. They ran through the dripping rain across the street to Mary's two door and squeezed in. The drive to the school to drop John and Greg off first wasn't long, and they spent it, like they spent every third morning listening to the BBC news station (Mary's choice). Mary dropped them off, and left with a smile and a wave. John and Greg split up to go to their separate parts of the school and start their day.
The school was Public, but John was sure not a thing like the posh place Sherlock had been educated, but rather a place for parents looking to send their children somewhere a bit more to their taste than a State School. Not that John found State Schools to be inadequate; he, after all had gone to one. John opened the door to the primary school, and sauntered down the hall into the lounge. He could smell the coffee brewing, and pulled his black and red striped mug down from the cupboard to pour himself some.
"Morning, John."
John turned to the sweet and chipper voice, and smiled as Jeannette, possibly the only female teacher in the entire school who didn't seem to hate him, walked in and reached over him, stretching her side so that it gently brushed against John in what could have been considered an accident, but he knew that it hadn't been. John watched her fall back on her feet, and push her long black hair behind her ears before pouring the hot coffee into the mug she brought down.
He and Jeanette had shared a drink or two after work, but neither of them had made the move to ask for more. John wasn't sure if she was interested. He knew that he had a reputation at the school; that the female faction found him attractive, desirable, but no one took him seriously as someone to go beyond dinner and the bedroom with. But if he didn't ask, he was going to lose his chance forever.
"Do you have plans tomorrow night? I thought maybe we could grab some dinner." John asked her
She smiled, "yea, that sounds lovely."
"Great. Text me your address and I'll pick you up at seven?"
"Sure." She smiled again, and left the lounge with her mug, stealing a glance at John behind her shoulder on the way.
John took a moment to admire the curve of her backside; the way her light gray pencil skirt hugged at her bum. John knew, that two years away from the dreaded four-O, he should be focused more on finding a mate for the long haul rather than bouncing around with girls half his age, but John wasn't quite ready to give up the fun he could have with girls like Jeanette.
John shook himself out of his fog, and dumped the coffee down his throat. He brushed down, passed the art work in the hall until he came to his classroom, and unlocked the door, flipped on the light and started setting up for his day.
John's decision to become a teacher sort of happened by accident. He had planned to follow in his father's footsteps, and become a surgeon, but while John was serving in the Royal Guard, hoping to take advantage of their program to fast track his medical career, his father abruptly left their family, and John found himself leaving behind the army, and his hopes of being any kind of doctor.
John's day progressed much as he would have expected it to; over eager students just waiting for the day to be over so that they could scream their way into the weekend. John, too, was waiting for the day to be over, so he could sink into a cup of tea, and some bad telly while the last vestiges of his hangover disappeared.
He took the tube home with Greg, who didn't have to stay for a practice, He kept his bag close, the pencils he had bought from the school shop earlier in the day, tucked inside, and headed out to the station. They stopped at Tesco, picking up some groceries, and walked the rest of the way back to 221.
Sherlock wasn't home when John got back from the store. John mumbled to himself as he put away the shopping, leaving Sherlock's biscuits, and pencils out on the desk underneath the window that was supposed to be the both of theirs, but was always so cluttered with Sherlock's things that John could barely even set his laptop down there. He put on a kettle of water to boil for he and Greg (whom had decided to stay for a little bit), and popped in some toast. He pulled out the jar of jam from the fridge, unscrewed the lid, and walked with it, still in his hands toward the living room to see if Greg would want some too.
It all happened in slow motion; as if it wasn't even happening to him at all. John's sock caught on a splinter in the hardwood floor, he tried to pull it free before even realizing what the problem was, and then the jar was slipping out of his hands, flying into the air, and hitting against Sherlock's coat, thrown over the back of John's chair, before crashing down to the floor.
"Oh, bloody, fucking shite!" John yelled, when the horror of what had happened finally hit him. He frantically reached for the coat; his feet sliding into a pile of jam and glass. He stared down at the woolen, stained fabric in his hands. Greg, on the other side of the room, clasped his hand over his mouth to stifle the laughter getting to escape,
"Sherlock is going to kill you." He said.
"Sherlock is going to fucking kill me!" John yelled, He grabbed the sides of his head with his hands, letting the coat fall down to the floor. "I made this big deal about him destroying my things this morning, and I fucking ruin his coat!" John let out a loud, frustrated grunt.
Sherlock had feelings for very little, but he cared for his coat as a mother cared for her child. It was still relatively new; he had only bought it two years earlier for his thirtieth birthday. While John and Greg, and the girls and Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, were sitting around with over an over eaten plate of sandwiches and an uneaten birthday cake, Sherlock was at the shops, slipping his arms into the silk lined sleeves, and falling in love.
And John had just murdered it with a jar of strawberry jam.
"Do you think maybe he did it on purpose?" Greg asked "like, he left it out to teach you a lesson about annoying him or something?
John shook his head, "Sherlock would never sacrifice his coat; for anything. Shit!"
"Who thought you English, mate?"
"I'm upset. I curse when I'm upset."
"I see that."
"Oh! Oh!" John jumped a little, "Brilliant!" John set the coat back down, and ran through the kitchen, and down the hallway to Sherlock's bedroom, tripping over a case Sherlock had left against the wall.
"What are you on about?" Greg called after him.
"He has another one!" John yelled from the back of the flat.
"He what?"
John came back into the living room, holding an identical coat. "He bought another, so when this one needs to be mended or cleaned he still has one to wear."
"He is an interesting fellow isn't he?"
John waved his hand in dismissal of Greg's comment, and bundled up the dirty coat underneath his arm.
"I'll take it to his cleaner, and just hope it can get cleaned before he has to put on this one, or notices the other missing from the closet."
"Is he really going to know the difference?"
John glared over at Greg.
"Yes, yes, I know how stupid of a question it was. Come on, let's go then."
John hung up the decoy coat on the hooks by the front door at the bottom of the staircase, and he and Greg went to the over priced, and frankly too upscale dry cleaner that Sherlock used to keep his posh things posh. He left it with an overly enthusiastic girl at the counter (How could anyone who treated stains all day for a living be that chipper?), and returned back to the flat to make more tea in an attempt to calm his nerves.
When Sherlock got home, later that night, John was sitting in his chair. Sherlock tossed a handful of shopping bags on the couch
"Where is my coat?" Sherlock asked; the first thing out of his mouth.
John cringed. He had hoped he would at least make it through the night before Sherlock noticed, but of course, that was always just a fanciful hope.
"You left it on the chair this morning; I hung it up for you." He said, really hoping the strained, high pitch of his voice wasn't noticeable to Sherlock.
"No. You went into my closet and took down my secondary coat and hung that one up, but my actual coat is gone. Where is it?"
"Look, Sherlock" John started, setting down the student papers he was reading, and standing up to properly face Sherlock; to tell the truth to him like a man rather than a coward, " I spilled jam on it, and I brought it to the cleaners- right after it happened. I'll pick up tomorrow." He said quickly. "I hung up the other coat hoping you wouldn't notice until I could switch them out, but I knew you would know. Stupid idea."
Sherlock was quiet. He stared at John; his face as impassive as ever and John couldn't quite figure it out. Sherlock, along with his many other talents, had a talent for reading people, though that wasn't what he called it, and John had picked up a few things in the years they had known each other, at least he thought he had picked up a few things to be able to read Sherlock, but he he had no idea what was going through his head at that moment.
"Sherlock? I'm sorry."
"Did you take it to my cleaner?" he asked.
"Of course. The girl behind the desk said they shouldn't have a problem with it. Did I mention I was sorry?"
"Yes, you did." Sherlock said slowly. "It's fine, John."
"Really?"
"Really. It was an accident; I shouldn't have been so careless as to leave it lying about."
"Oh, God; you're going to kill me in my sleep aren't you?"
"Don't be ridiculous, John. It's only a coat." Sherlock said, laughing and picking his bags back up to bring them into the bedroom.
"Right, well, again, I'm sorry."
"And, again; I say that it's fine. I have socks to place into my index, would you order us some take away from the Indian place?"
"Sure."
"Thank you." Sherlock said with a smile, and disappeared.
John didn't feel right. Sherlock shouldn't have been so...understanding about the whole thing. He should have screamed, and thrown books from the shelf onto the floor; he should have at least threatened bodily harm if not actually delivered it. But he shouldn't have said it was fine; he shouldn't have laughed, and he shouldn't have willingly asked for food.
Something was definitely going to happen.
John Watson did not feel safe.