Work Text:
Sherlock makes breakfast, most days. Most often, eggs and toast on a tray. Sometimes pancakes if he’s feeling particularly chipper. It’s simply yogurt and fruit if they’re in a hurry - she eats while he picks out her clothes again. He picks out her favorites, the clothes that make her feel most like herself. She notices. He knows she does.
Joan makes lunch, usually sandwiches. They are not afterthoughts, thrown together quickly or haphazardly. No, she takes time to make them special - adding the pickles he likes and cutting them on the diagonal. He notices. She knows he does.
Dinner is takeout, or, more rarely, a trip to the diner on the corner that serves breakfast all day. They can compare notes over waffles or burgers, and deduce the stories of the other patrons. The takeout he lets her choose - she knows what he likes, and can fit the selection to the mood of the case: something spicy if the case is growing cold, and something comforting if it’s starting to heat up. He notices. She knows he does.
He cleans the refrigerator, every month on the 15th, like clockwork. She picks up the dry cleaning. The other laundry they do together - the hum of the machines at the laundromat a soothing background to their conversation. He likes to test her pickpocketing skills there. She can always lift his wallet, even when he’s prepared. It’s just a matter of controlling the focus, and she can control him like no one else. He notices. She knows he does.
They read together in the evenings - her curled up on the sofa, him in the wing chair nearby. She’s moving quickly through his assigned reading list, and he’s trying to keep up. He spends more of his time watching her than he does reading. She remains a mystery to him - one he is focused on solving. She notices. He knows she does.