I think one of my favorite parts of a story is the moment when the meaning of the title is explained. :)

Tea Leaves

"You weren't afraid to fight for him?" asked John, a look of new respect passing into his eyes.

"A man like David needs to be fought for, and I was the woman to do it," Anita said. "The difference between me and Belinda was that I wasn't afraid to get down in the mud to scrap for what I wanted, and what she cared far more about was her social standing, or more, not getting dirty. When it came down to it, though, she just couldn't prove her love like I could. She did fight, though, in her own way, but not for long. She pulled out every stop to deter and sabotage me- she nearly got me fired at one point, but by then David was becoming protective, even if he didn't realize that he had feelings for me, so I kept my job with him. Our boys take after him with personality; they're very analytical and intelligent, but when it comes to matters of the heart they're more than a bit dense. That's where people like you and I come in."

"Me?" John raised his eyebrows.

Anita smiled at him. "Yes, you. You don't think I've noticed the effect you've had on my son? I can't believe how much he's changed since I saw him last. He's more open and receptive to others and he actually pays attention to things other than his work or his personal feelings. John, he's never had a best friend, and he's clearly proud to introduce you as the man who fills that role."

A warm flush crept up John's neck. "I haven't done anything much."

"You've done plenty, but the difference is subtle. It's rather like tea leaves in water. You have water- versatile, universal, unique in its own way- but when you add tea leaves, what once was just water suddenly becomes tea. It's completely saturated with the flavor and it changes, often for the better."

John sat back, thinking about this analogy. "Which of us is water and which is tea leaves?"

Anita's smile was warm. "I think you two have a little bit of both. But I rather think that Sherlock's life has been saturated with the flavor of John Watson, and- like tea- once it's that way, it's not going back to being just water."

John rubbed the back of his neck and swallowed, uncertain as to why his chest felt tight and his stomach felt fluttery. "You, ah. What were you saying about you and David?"

He ignored her knowing smile as she continued. "I proved to David, eventually, that I was the one who was willing to fight for him, that Belinda wanted him solely for the power he gave her and that while he felt secure with her, it was I that he wanted to be with. And that was the case, you know- there was no need to manipulate on my part. He only needed to discover the truth."

"And when he realized?"

"He broke off his engagement with Belinda. David loved me, and he knew that. He felt secure at the side of his beautiful companion, but with me he felt love."

"You're so lucky," John told her, feeling a bit envious. "And he's fortunate to have such a woman by his side."

"I try to stay worth his while," Sherlock's mother said with a wink.

Remembering his mission, John said after a short pause, "I still need to find a gift for Sherlock." Distraught as he was brought back to reality, he asked anxiously, "What do I do?"

"You're the one who sees Sherlock every day," said Anita pointedly. "What do you think would be a good gift for him?"

John shut his eyes and thought, picturing his flatmate in his mind. The inspiration hit him so suddenly that his eyes flew open and he snatched at Anita's sleeve. "I think I've got it," he said determinedly. "We need to go back."

"What is it?"

"You'll see."

xXxXxXxXxXx

John wrapped the presents he had for everyone, putting on makeshift labels he'd made with store-bought stickers. He'd written up the addresses of his sister and mother on their gifts and had successfully wrapped Mike's jumper despite its pliability. Sherlock's present was last.

John stared at it a bit apprehensively. He'd never been very good at giving gifts, and he'd discovered that Sherlock was ridiculously hard to shop for. Maybe I should have just gotten him a book…

He remembered his own book, sitting forlornly on his desk back at their flat. He hadn't written in it for quite some time- Sherlock had a funny way of diverting all his attention.

John remembered the notebook his therapist had given him, telling him to use his creativity to tell a story. He'd always thought it had been a bit of a pathetic attempt to make him feel better, and he didn't think he was much of a writer in the first place, but nonetheless he'd begun writing a story. It had been a somewhat half-baked mystery crime story, but as he'd never had much experience with that kind of thing before Sherlock, it had been pretty weak and he hadn't had much passion for it.

That first night he met me, John recalled suddenly, remembering Sherlock in his midnight blue suit, his dark curls falling into his eyes, sauntering up to the counter at Bean There like he owned it and telling John he hand wrote all his essays. It was the only thing he'd ever really gotten wrong when he was making all those observations about me. He knew I didn't have a computer and that I hand wrote my essays, but he didn't know I'd been up late writing a story, not an essay.

An idea took seed in his mind, creeping tendrils of inspiration throughout his head.

I'll just write about the subject I know best, then.

Prompt was from Sailasiri Culnamo, and it was: sudden