Chapter Text
The sleek maroon silk of John Watson's robe warmed in the morning sun as he stood placidly at the window, observing the hustling people of London hum and thrive on the grey cement streets below. A woman laughed after locking her bike away, her orange hair licking at her pale shoulders like flames as it tumbled out of her helmet.
A man walking a small terrier passed her, and John's dark eyes caught him turn around and watch her lean form secure the helmet to the metal basket.
The doctor smiled to himself, the cup of tea slowly cooling in his worn hands. He bathed in the peace of moments such as this; his life constantly moving, the ringing crack of gunshots and the crimson color of bloody scenes heavily weighing on his tense shoulders.
His prominent, unique nose nearly touched the glass as his gaze followed the fit woman into the bakery, her yellow shirt contrasting the blue and white design of the shop.
John Watson breathed deeply as he admired the city's awakening. He was tired, and he moved away from the window slowly, as if he had no certain place to be. He made his way across the living room and sought the comfort of his chair, his flatmate's empty adjacent his.
He plopped his bum down lightly and sipped his cold tea. He made a face at its chill and set it on the table beside him. He stretched.
John Watson was a fit man, strong and solid, as if he wouldn't tumble backwards if he were to be rammed into. His shoulders were broad, although on his left, the tender, puckered, shiny skin where he'd been shot was just so. He was short and heavy, his muscles toned strenuously from military training. His eyes were filled with natural curiosity, and they switched from a deep navy color to a stormy grey for no particular reason at all. His stern gaze lay underneath light, sandy hair that he meticulously combed with occasional product, though nothing seemed to make a difference. His face was round and worn, his eyes sunken deep into it after experiencing the horrors of war firsthand. His brows were quizzical and his chin less than sharp. His smile was brilliant, gorgeous when he meant it and terrifying if he was livid. He had rough, soldier's hands, but they patted his knees gently as he relaxed in his favorite chair, the overly long robe fitting snug on his torso.
He kicked at the newspaper on the ground with his toes, curling them in an attempt to pick it up. After a few tries, he succeeded, and he brought yesterday's headline up to his face. He read through he obituaries, the articles, even the comics, anything to pass the time calmly.
Sherlock Holmes, his flatmate and complete prick, seldom slept, but when he did, it was out of cycle and hard to awaken him from. John bathed in the glory of the silence, no tapping of laptop keys or mutterings or mind palaces being searched. Although the quiet was lovely, John missed Sherlock's low, grumbling voice, and he waited patiently for him to wake so he could hear it once more. Only then did his day officially begin; these hours were just fillers.
John sat calmly, thinking of the fit woman with the bike. She was beautiful, that was clear. It seemed that he noticed her beauty rather than being taken back and shocked by it, as if he weren't expecting someone so incredible to have added appeal. John was good natured that way. He noticed appearances and personality nearly on the same level, some cases exceptions. He would come out and say it right on if he was attracted, as well, but quickly shy away if met with rejection.
The war doctor was unattached at the moment, having just broken it off with one of his girlfriends. Seemed he got bored easily with women, or women with him. He acknowledged them as intelligent, witty, compassionate, and radiant, but he never was completely in awe of anyone. ...Save for Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock was a masterpiece.
Said man appeared from his room, his eyes sleep ridden but his posture pure. He wandered with shuffling feet over to John and plopped down in his chair, his long legs stretching out and rolling at the joints with a satisfying pop.
Mr. Holmes was unnatural. He was pale, chiseled, and structured. His tall form stood regal and proud while his body moved lithely, quick and agile. His face was long, topped with extremely prominent cheekbones and a strong, wispy brow. His dark, shaggy, curled hair flopped into his eyes when messy, as it was now, and his almond eyes fluttered against dark lashes with the weight of sleep still on them. His lips were plump, the lower full and large, while the upper had a prominent dip, his cupid's bow sharp and angular. His face was strange and wonderfully so, as if one couldn't get bored looking at it. His eyes opened slowly, the morning light changing them from the dark blue they must've been as he slept to a brilliant jade green. His eyes caught anyone off guard, both with their changing shades and their intensity.
Sherlock's personality was more a puzzle than an art piece. He was brash, brutally honesty, and detective. He could break a heart in two, with a sneer, as well as mend it with a chime. He was a ridiculous man, one to deal with, certainly.
His talent, beyond playing the violin, combat, and chemistry, was deducing. He could tell what a man's occupation was from the length of his fingernails and how many times a woman had fallen in love by the wrinkles in her skirt. He was mad, utterly mad, and it was that mad fascination that John was drawn to.
While most people were frightened and skeptical of Sherlock's gift, John found it incredible and brilliant, and he voiced it the first day Sherlock deduced him, getting everything right via a handed down cellphone, save for the sex of his sibling. Sherlock was unaccustomed to hearing such praise, and it pleased him immensely. His high walls were beginning to crumble around John, although he had many layers.
His older brother, Mycroft Holmes, an even more intelligent and honest man, had overshadowed him in his talents and, although Mycroft only wished the best for his brother, seemed to shape most of what Sherlock held close.
Sherlock groaned now, and he touched his head with his slender fingers carefully. "John," he croaked, his voice new from sleeping, "Aspirin."
John immediately leapt from the chair and hurried to the kitchen, careful not to trip over his robe, where he rummaged for the bottle of pills and filled a clean glass with tap water before returning to the living room and handing both to Sherlock, whose sharp eyes were closed now, his head dipped back in his chair.
He took the pill and followed it with a gulp of water, mindlessly handing the full glass back in John's direction. John took it and set it down in the kitchen, hustling back to his position near the man.
"You've got a headache, then?" John asked, more of a statement than a question.
"Yes, my cycle is rubbish."
Sherlock stayed up most nights on cases, as was his job. He was a consulting detective, the only one in the world. He'd made the job up, even. The police sought his help in matters that far exceed their abilities, and Sherlock, as one of the workers John and Sherlock had frequently met with put it, "got off on it" - 'it' being the crimes.
Now that Sherlock slept through most of yesterday and today, the morning light that streamed onto his brows and eyelids now pained his aching head.
John nestled back in his chair and soaked in the sight of the man as he stretched his head back, his long neck exposed. "Have we got a case today?" the detective asked, his throat grumbling a sound up towards the ceiling.
"You tell me."
"My phone," Sherlock said.
"Where?" Conversation flowed easily between them, be it short quips or long deductions.
"My coat pocket."
John stood up once more, completely aware of his unhealthy compliance to bring Sherlock what he needed. Sherlock had so much taking up his mind and his energy that John had now gotten used to doing the odd chores like bringing him tea and biscuits and such. He found Sherlock's trademark charcoal, sweeping coat hanging on the rack and he slipped his hand into its warm pocket, feeling for the smooth surface of the phone hidden between satin folds.
"You're wearing my robe," Sherlock said from his slumped position in his chair. John couldn't see him as he made his way back, but he was sure that his eyes were still closed and the deduction had been made in the few seconds that they'd been open and briefly floating around John's form.
"Yes…" John was either a sassy prick with a heated argument in mind, or a fumbling, nervous teenage girl when he spoke to Sherlock. There was nearly no in between. He struggled to get the word out as he sat back in his chair, immediately wiping his hands on the arms.
"You didn't sleep in it, did you?" The man's adam's apple bobbed as his hand extended for the phone.
"No," John snorted, laughing off his embarrassment at the thought, "It was too cold for a shirt but too warm for a coat. It was on the bathroom door when I woke up and I wore it after my shower. You don't mind?" John was nervous about his decision to wear Sherlock's maroon robe, even though the blue one was more commonly worn by the tall man.
John Watson usually hid his wonder and fascination for Sherlock, save for his breathy compliments while on the job. This morning, his breaking of new ground was timid and curious, although John was sure Sherlock would berate him for it. John's invasion of personal space with Sherlock was rare, but it did happen, mostly when they were alone without a client or an interrupting Mrs. Hudson. He'd usually keep his hands off of Sherlock's belongings, but John felt needy and lonely after breaking up with Candice - or was it Claudia? - and John wanted to see how far he could go with Sherlock before being called out. Wearing his clothes was nearly far enough, it seemed. It was a game to him. He slipped word of their fragile friendship into daily conversation, he talked about how handsome he felt, and he most definitely joked about Sherlock being jealous of his dates. He liked the power play as well as the slightly less impassive look on Sherlock's face when he broke the barrier. Now he watched as Sherlock lifted his head up and sat up straight, his eyes locking directly onto John's. John stared back for a few seconds, lost in the rings of color, before he darted his gaze away and awaited a reply.
Sherlock recounted his deductions of John in order to calm himself and keep his running mind sharp.
Nervous, worried that I'll be upset that he wore my robe. He was leaning at the window a few moments ago, the dust on the front of my robe is obviously from the windowsill. Mrs. Hudson should tend to that. He made himself some tea but let it go cold as he watched the city. He did, in fact, put the robe on after his shower, the collar's damp. He regrets breaking up with Cheryl, or was it Charlotte? She was horrid. They're all horrid. He shaved this morning and slowly, he didn't nick himself this time. He doesn't have anything planned tonight, he's eaten quite a lot of toast, and if he had a date, he would have kept his diet smaller.
Sherlock watched John with fascination, because as much as he knew about him, as much as he could deduce about him, he couldn't understand John Watson's heart or how John felt about him. Not that he'd care, mind you.
He's going to ask if I have a case ready, even though he's already asked it. I don't feel like going out today. I want to go back to sleep.
John asked again.
Sherlock coolly looked at the phone in his hand, his thumb swiping across it smoothly, tapping on the screen. He wasn't looking at anything in particular, but John Watson didn't know that.
John kept his eyes on Sherlock. It was rather impossible not to watch Sherlock when he furrowed his brows and wet his lips. It was a curious attraction and John Watson always let himself gaze, passing it off as allowing himself to be swept up in the intensity of the case or leftover emotions from the strain of his lifestyle.
Sherlock looked up, "Nothing today."
John's stomach clenched, I don't have anything planned either.
"So what?" he asked. That sounded rude. Shit.
Sherlock stood up suddenly, briskly, and he made his way to the kitchen, sniffing at the crumbs of bread left there by John. "Hungry this morning?" Sherlock teased.
Bastard.
John picked the paper up with a nonchalant hand, attempting to seem unfazed by the comment. He ruffled it and cast his eyes on it without soaking in any of the words. He forced his cheeks not to heat. "So what'll you do, then?"
Don't seem eager, now. John persuaded himself to keep his mind from the straying images of Sherlock and him having a day together. He didn't think of the smirk Sherlock would get when playing cards, his deductions and card counting always causing him to win. He didn't think of Sherlock and him doing laundry and getting distracted from the task by throwing clean clothes at each other. John Watson would never think such things.
Except that he did.
This prick will probably just tell me to get out while he works with his set. John eyed the chemistry set on the kitchen table, Sherlock's tight bum flitting around it as he began to make toast and fill the kettle again.
John disregarded it as much as he could. It was harder to control his wandering eyes on lazy days like this. Maybe it was just the newness of the year that made him sickeningly sentimental. His resolutions failed him and he seemed to wonder how much easier it would've been to keep Chandra around.
"Well?" Sherlock hadn't answered.
Sherlock and John bantered back and forth with quick remarks or questions, their prolonged dialogue usually attached to a dispute.
"Have a cup, dress, do some experiments. As for you, get out of my robe." He bounced around the kitchen, his back turned. The bread took longer than expected to pop, and John found himself counting the seconds until Sherlock pulled the toast from its snug position in the toaster.
"Fine," John hid his hurt voice beneath his sass. He stood and removed the robe, flinging it down on Sherlock's chair adjacent his. He left the living room quickly, seeing as they'd run out topics to talk about, and Sherlock preferred to eat his breakfast alone. It seemed that way today, anyway. Sherlock was particularly prickly.
The lean detective set his toast and empty cup down on the clear table in the center of the living room. He took the paper from beside John's chair and lay it down, the kettle steaming. He moved towards the kitchen, taking precaution not to strain his tense muscles, which were sore due to his long sleep. He retrieved the kettle and poured the hot water into the cup carefully, the sunlight catching in the reflective stream. He returned it to the kitchen, his fingers strangely alive and shaking with excitement. He couldn't deduce what caused them to do so. He sat down gracefully.
He ate and drank peacefully as he read the paper, his eyes soaking in the words John had previously. Yesterday's paper became dull to him quickly, and he just reveled in the silence of the still room, unaware of his mind - which, for once, wasn't racing over crimes and blood. It was mildly stuck on John's abrupt disappearance from the living room.
Sherlock was impassive as he heard John huff in a near gallop down the stairs from his room, take his own coat from the rack, and leave the flat.
Alone now, Sherlock eyed his violin. He'd save the experiments for later; the thought of composing was calling him like the ocean's lapping waves.