Work Text:
"...Sherlock."
The world's only consulting detective, sprawled over the couch and still in his dressing gown at 1pm, didn't deign to look up from his phone.
"Please tell me why there are brains in the bread basket and a hand where the ham should be." John's tone was carefully even. Accustomed as he was to the body parts littered around the flat, he still felt a surge of disgust and fought to keep nausea out of his voice.
"...They're for an experiment."
"For crying out loud, Sherlock! All I wanted was a bloody ham sandwich!" There was an angry patter of footsteps, and John emerged from the kitchen. His face was a picture of exasperation as he looked down at his flatmate, still texting. Finally, Sherlock looked up.
"...You could have a bloody hand sandwich," he replied drily, a ghost of a smile crossing his lips. John failed to see the humour in this, shook his head, and returned his search for something edible.
-----
"Let's go out for lunch," announced Sherlock, springing up from the sofa suddenly. He whirled into the kitchen where John was haplessly foraging for food, full of action and purpose. The good doctor looked at him, bemused. For somebody who'd spent the morning lying on the couch texting, he was quite full of energy. Typical.
"Why are you suggesting this all of a sudden?" John asked, more than a little puzzled by the decision.
"You want food," replied his friend, gesturing at the kitchen, "And we don't have any." As if that settled the matter, he turned on his heel and exited the kitchen. John followed, stopping to lean on the wall and watch his friend preparing to go out.
"...Sherlock."
"What?" Sherlock snapped a little testily, shrugging on his coat and neatly tying his scarf, never pausing.
"...Dressing gown."
The detective looked down at himself and slowly up again. The hem of a silk gown peeked out from under his coat. A bigger giveaway were the striped pajama bottoms.
Without a sound, he turned and strode up to his bedroom.
John laughed silently to himself.
-----
It was nearing 2pm when the unlikely pair sat down in a run-down London cafe. John picked up the menu and began browsing. Sherlock ignored his; he was staring out of the window, watching the traffic go by, lost in thought. It wasn't worth telling him to eat something, as he'd had half an apple the day before and considered himself fine for another day or two. However, out of habit, John asked.
"...You." Came the reply.
"W-what?" John spluttered, bewildered and a little shocked.
"...Option U, on the menu. Sweetcorn pasta salad."
John, quite at a loss for words, looked down at the bit of card in his hands. Sure enough, the items were lettered. Odd. And option U was indeed pasta salad.
"...Oh." The doctor felt a little embarrassed at assuming he meant anything else. However, Sherlock seemed unpeturbed. He tried to relax again.
A waitress came up, chewing a piece of gum languidly, and took their orders. She wandered away slowly. John wondered irritably if they could expect their food before next Christmas.
After a while of sitting in not uncomfortable silence, Sherlock turned away from the window and fixed John with a penetrating stare. Those light eyes had a way of making the detective look more intense than ordinary hazel ever could.
"When I said I was having 'U' earlier, you seemed flustered. Why?"
"Well, I thought you said 'you'... Items aren't normally lettered."
"You thought I wanted to have you?" Sherlock's eyebrows raised in mock surprise. John looked away, a little pink. He tried to make some protest, but Sherlock silenced him.
"My dear John, I already do."