Breakfast at 221B Baker Street was always so ordinary and quiet. Well, Sherlock stepped over chairs, sorted through papers, twitched and occasionally shot at the wall, but at least he was quiet about it. All the while, John Watson, sat there, and stifled back a laugh. But this particular morning, things were, looking slightly different.
John was sitting at the round dining room table – that was far too large for the kitchen – and sat as far away as possible from the body infested fridge. Sherlock found it amusing to keep human fingers – real fingers! – and the occasional toe stashed away. Don't get me wrong, having been a doctor in the armed forces, John Watson had certainly seen his fair share of delightful body parts –and some were quite delightful – but whilst sipping his nice, hot cup of coffee and flipping through the morning paper, he preferred not to be near any body parts … okay, except Sherlock Holmes' … John blinked a few times at his abrupt and unexpected thought. He swallowed and looked around the apartment, as if someone might hear his thoughts. Through the running of water from Sherlock's shower, he could hear the other man humming ever so slightly. Odd, John thought, very odd. He had never known Sherlock Holmes to hum or do anything exciting, but he seemed to be doing a lot of it lately. John would catch Sherlock smiling when he looked down and most of the time it seemed to be happening when John was in the room.
John focused his attention back on the newspaper in his hands and began to read it just as the phone rang loudly. The next thing John knew, the shower had been turned off and Sherlock was running almost naked out of the shower to get the phone. John looked him up and down, taking him in. His hair was lightly wet, his blue eyes were bluer than ever and his bare torso was simply glistening from the water and steam. John had to force himself to look away. God. Get a hold on yourself, John Watson.
But, to his seemingly lost mind, Sherlock Holmes was indeed a beautiful sight. Nothing about Sherlock's body could be faulted. He was like a perfectly drawn piece of art. He made you stop and stare just by making his presence known, and most of all, he made you feel something.
John gulped again, his heartbeat quickening.
Sherlock had the phone cord wrapped around his fingers, playing with it slightly. The phone was held to his ear and he looked over at John only to flash him a quick grin.
John was frozen on the spot. Before he could register it or even function enough to do something – anything – Sherlock was murmuring into the phone. Whoever was on the other end of the phone was receiving Sherlock's usual and ordinary smart arse personality. Well, as ordinary and usual as a high-functioning sociopath could give.
'What do you mean it was there and now it's just simply gone?'
Judging by the look on Sherlock's face, the recent caller of crime was obviously not satisfying Sherlock's needs of crazy criminals and unsolvable reasons. Poor guy is going to cop it. John felt increasingly sorry for the person on the receiving end of the phone.
'Well that's just absolutely ridiculous. Something cannot just merely disappear and not be found. This is nonsense.'
Sherlock wiggled his nose absentmindedly.
John had to cover his mouth with his hands to not show his grin. He's adorable.
'I'm sorry – actually I am not sorry – but this nonsense is making me want to bang my head against the wall.' And with that, he slammed the phone down. 'All of bloody London and there hasn't been a single decent case for three weeks! Three whole bloody weeks! John Watson I cannot take it anymore!'
John began to clear his throat, attempting to gain control over his emotions. 'Well … um –'
'I just cannot handle it anymore. I'm bored.' Sherlock flung himself into the chair opposite John, his towel hanging low on his toned waist. Showing just enough for the mind to race, but left enough for the imagination.
John tried not to stare. Suddenly, the inside of his coffee mug became the most interesting thing in the entire room.
'John …' Sherlock began.
John tried to think of something to say. 'Eat,' he said, pushing forwards two pieces of toast, trying not to look at Sherlock.
'No.'
'Eat.' John was failing to hold back a laugh.
'No.'
'Eat.'
'No.'
'Sherlock Holmes, will you just eat for the love of God?' And John made the mistake of looking up, directly into Sherlock's enchanting blue eyes. He could write soppy poetry and bad music about those eyes if there was any peace and quiet when living with Sherlock. And, of course, if he could actually write poetry and soppy music. But somehow, those eyes made John feel as though he could do anything. Even poetry.
Sherlock grinned.
'Stop doing that,' John mumbled.
'Stop doing what?' Sherlock's grin widened.
'Just – stop … eat.'
'Can I at least put some clothes on first?'
'No. Eat.'
'Why, John Watson, do you prefer me better with my clothes off?'
John didn't answer but rather got up and shoved the toast into Sherlock's mouth.
'Oh John, you are a piece of work,' Sherlock said as best as he could with a piece of toast in his mouth. It worked though. John had finally got Sherlock to eat.