A/N: England is back in a form of nationwide lockdown. Stay safe. -csf


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I come out of the shower still shrugging a tower over my hair, the warm scent of spicy shower gel lingering about, and my cotton t-shirt clinging to my damp back. My bare feet leave condensation prints where I pass, that last only a couple of moments before they disappear into the ether. At the living room's desk, Sherlock seems oblivious to my resurgence in the homely scene, readying myself for a long day's work as a locum at a surgery.

'Sherlock, what are you doing?' The detective looms eagerly over the mechanical remnants of something oddly familiar, peering over a mounted magnifying lens and holding up a soldering iron. He's even got his safety goggles on because safety is paramount in his experiments (it's the decision over which experiments to perform that lacks all good sense). I squint and finally recognise: 'Is that... is that our doorbell?'

Sherlock ignores my question altogether, and proceeds to attack the device with a concentrated yet curious expression softening his premature wrinkles. I don't have long to ponder his familiar face before I'm grimacing.

He's consistently modulating the sound coming out of the electronic device. It sounds a bit like torturing the poor buzzer, that is crying out for its release from captivity at the claws of an evil scientist.

'Of course it is our doorbell, John. You are obviously more attentive than I customarily give you credit for. I'm changing the doorbell tone to a B flat.'

'Why? It was working just fine before.'

He looks at me as if I just said something preposterous.

'It was wrong before. This flat is the 221B. No wonder most our clients came upstairs and the first thing they uttered was a request for identity confirmation: "are you Mr Sherlock Holmes?" It really won't do when the doorbell says G flat. Or just messes with every musically educated guest by presenting them with a B sharp.'

'Oh.' I blink. My damp towel slips off my slackened fingers, unnoticed in my surprise, and I hasten to pick it up off the rug. 'It's also Baker Street. Does that mean you've got banana bread going in the oven?' I smirk.

'Don't be silly, John. Mrs Hudson is baking the bread. Whether it's banana bread or some other carbohydrate base, I'm not sure until she brings us some to sample.'

I chuckle. 'Silly me, carry on.'

My flatmate may be plain nuts, but his logic process is absolutely spotless.

I shrug, happy that Sherlock is finding ways to keep himself busy.

Even if these days there are no clients dropping by Baker Street, we're once more in lockdown. Sherlock's cases have once again dried out under the harsh strain of the global pandemic, and our friend DI Lestrade is supplying us with a diet size amount of cold cases to help the detective keep his wits.

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'Sherlock, what have you done to the fridge?'

From the microscope's eye piece he looks up to me, intrigued. He notices my choice of professional clothes and grimaces minutely; I don't know if because he's jealous of the time I spend at work or if he has become partial to my long sleeved striped t-shirts and now disdains the professional plain shirt. What he doesn't seem to notice is how close I stand to the fridge.

'Please would you be more specific in you query, John?'

Yeah, I could be talking about the human eyeballs on the eggs holder or the Industrial Denatured Alcohol container next to the milk. Sherlock's usual defence is that flatmates are supposed to share the fridge.

'I think you know very well what you have done to the fridge, mate.'

He stares at me in patient innocence, his green eyes all boyish and harmless. I give up and elaborate promptly - given that it might just be possible that Sherlock doesn't know. His alien world is bound by different rules than us common mortals.

'Ugh, that would be – why is the fridge door magnetized, Sherlock?'

He focuses on the unnatural way my wrist is pinned to the centre of the fridge door, by my wristwatch.

'Funny, I didn't magnetize your watch on purpose, John', he comments, disregarding me for his microscope, which he turns off, promptly getting up from his chair.

Great, now I'm stuck to the fridge whilst possibly unknowingly late for work?

'Sherlock!' I thunderously call his name.

He overtly patiently comes to unclasp my wristwatch and sets me free.

'There you go, John.' He acts like there's nothing wrong in the world. I turn my head to look at the wristwatch's underside while it's relentlessly clinging to the fridge door.

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I'm pocketing my wallet when I simultaneously insert a slice of bread on the toaster. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. I mentally shrug and feed in another slice for my friend. He often eats when he finds abandoned snack offerings around the flat, and I'm not around. He's still a bit thin, but mostly out of indulging in his own laziness, because he finds himself alone in the flat for hours on end now and lacks external motivation. When I'm not around he seems to forget to pay attention to his body's needs, as if keeping himself in a suspended animation state until we can go back into The Work. "The work is all that matters to me, John."

I'm about to fetch the jam – no butter, for the fridge is all powerful in its magnetism this morning – when the first soap bubbles float overhead, catching my eye. I look up onto the ethereal beauty of the opalescent spheres floating about peacefully and squint.

'Sherlock, what did you do to the toaster?' I shout.

No answer.

It's not like he'd properly tell me anyway.

Science is the convenient blanket excuse.

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'Not those, John. Use the new tea bags packet Mrs Hudson has just brought in for you.'

I sigh at the advice that shatters the tranquillity of my morning routine, and I ground my hands on the kitchen counter, feeling the sudden tension weighing on my shoulders.

I don't know if I've reached breaking point, or if this is the ultimate deal breaker.

'What have you done, Sherlock?' I lament.

'It's for an experiment, John.' There's an awkward pause where he checks if his simple subterfuge worked, before he adds: 'You wouldn't want to know, John.'

'Try me', I dare. It cuts across the kitchen in a sharp, military, take-no-prisoners tone.

There's an one second audible silence before presumably Sherlock finishes dry-swallowing and tells his audience:

'I may have made your tea bags impermeable.'

'Why would you do that?' I try to be the adult in the room.

'Science.'

Isn't that his one-size-fits-all excuse?

'And – tell me this, Sherlock – how does waterproofing tea bags advance scientific knowledge?'

'You never know unless you try.'

Right, he's desperately clinging on to platitudes now. Scrambling for a way out.

I sigh harder, lowering my chin to my clavicle on the process. One lousy morning, just one simple measly morning; that's too much to ask without getting sabotaged by science?

Sherlock hastens to remind me:

'John, you have replacement tea bags, as I've pointed out.'

'Indeed. A brand new packet', I recognise, picking it up and putting it down on the counter again.

'So what seems to be the problem?'

Lord help me, he's genuinely confused.

'Why would you massacre perfectly innocent tea bags, devoid them of their life purpose?'

'Science.'

'You said that before.'

Sherlock blinks.

'I have made an acid burnt hole in the stairs that threatens to collapse a step if you don't avoid it, the fireplace's wallpaper glows in the dark, and there are human remains in the fridge that may or may not have had their last rites. You have not protested this much on any of those circumstances, John.'

He's got a point; albeit by digging himself a deeper hole.

'Well, I guess – but this is tea. Perfectly fine tea until you wasted it!' I finally lash out, gesticulating my anger about me.

Sherlock sighs in his turn. Am I finally getting to him?

He gets up to go to the kettle himself.

'Have a seat, John, I'll brew you a cuppa.'

I scoff at that. I'm not forgetting this soon! –and that's a vow.

Sherlock insists on trying to placate me: 'Hush now. Everything will be alright soon. Particularly given that you don't take sugar.'

I groan as I take a seat in the armchair.

'What about the sugar, Sherlock?' I ask quietly.

The busy detective glances my way in quiet approval, before he returns his attention to the deepening chaotic storm of tossed about pots and pans. Doesn't he know we have an electric kettle?

'I seem to have misplaced an amount of a similar looking white granular chemical compound, John', he fesses up reasonably fast, this time around.

No mentions of science at all.

I shrug. 'That's fine, just throw the sugar tin's content away.'

'You're just saying that to irritate me.'

I frown, confused. What, why?

'John, you can make your own tea, the kettle's boiled.' The stroppy detective stomps out of the kitchen, down the corridor and bangs his bedroom door after him.

I guess that's one of the great detective's weak spot; a sweet tooth.

I roll my eyes. 'Fine, I'll make the ruddy tea. When don't I?'

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'Sherlock, talk to me?'

I've squatted by his bedroom door, firmly closed shut, and I'm talking to the wooden barrier between us.

'Just drop it, John, I've got nothing to declare', he states princely from the inside.

'You've been weird all morning. Look, I need to go to work soon, I don't want this – whatever this is – hanging in the air between us.'

'You can stay, and we'll talk', he grooms me, shamelessly.

Is that what this is really about? My work as a medical professional? Sherlock is worried sick I get contaminated by the premises or infected by a patient I see. If I stay, I won't be in danger. If I keep to the flat, to fix Sherlock's sabotages or tell him off – negative attention is still attention – he'll have some company now he's alone again, and got no work to distract him.

I let go of a heavy breath and lower my forehead straight against the cool wood.

'Sherlock, I have to go to work.'

'I can pay you to stay at home', he tries to lure me. I have no doubt he would use the Holmes's undisclosed fortune to keep me around. That's what loneliness does to you.

I grin sadly. I wouldn't take his money, and I'd stay, but I'm needed out there.

I'm blessed to have a mate that makes it harder for me to lead the house to go to work.

'Sherlock, I'm needed there. All hands on deck, you know that.'

And when I go back to the hospital work, and if I'm assigned to one of the hot virus wards? Sherlock can't come with, his expertise lays with the deceased. When it comes to the medical field our partnership is unequal, and Sherlock is not used to not having the upper hand.

'I can kidnap you and force you to stay in 221B', he tells me, animated.

'You and whose army?' I challenge with another flashed grin at the door.

'Okay, Mycroft's people can kidnap you', he corrects easily.

'They wouldn't stand a chance, if I didn't normally choose to cooperate.'

I'm amused Sherlock accepts me as a fighter so easily that he actually sees me defeating Britain's top spooks to decline a quick meeting with his brother.

Meanwhile the detective is still exploring his options:

'I can become ill myself. No, wait. That's no fun. Mycroft can mysteriously become ill.'

'Mycroft can find himself his own doctor. I'm busy. At work. In the surgery. It's only a short shift.'

'John... what if you get ill?' the voice from across the door is small and helpless now.

'I won't', I vow. 'I'll be careful.'

The door unlocks suddenly and I have to stand up straighter at once, parting with the lukewarm vertical surface.

I find Sherlock equally sat on the floor, his stormy green eyes levelled with mine, and he assures me:

'I'll hold you to that promise, John. These are dangers I cannot protect you from.' ("Please keep safe, John.")

'These are difficult times.' ("We will prevail together.")

He nods quietly, mostly to his own racing thoughts.

'Would you like a ride to work in Mrs Hudson's car?' ("Can I share your load, John?")

I smile, a tight smile. 'I thought you would never ask.' ("I need you by my side, Sherlock.")

'Alright then.'

'But, seriously, next time leave the teabags alone.'

He chuckles, amused over my fondness for tea.

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