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John Watson slurped his tea.
“John…” said a patient velvet baritone.
“Hmmm? Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Clearly. Do catch up.”
“Apologies,” huffed John. “Not all of us are brilliant first thing in the morning.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, John. Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.”
“That’s clever. Just make that up, did you? And aren’t you always brilliant?”
“Oscar Wilde.” Sherlock poured a splash of milk into his tea and sipped it tentatively. “And, whilst I am indeed brilliant, my light is never quite as bright at breakfast. Nor should it be.”
John looked up from his paper then, actually observing his flatmate. Sherlock was a carefully curated blend of groomed and unkempt. His dark curls were tousled, but clean and shining. He wore his favourite blue dressing gown with the iodine stain on the sleeve over an impeccable white dress shirt and grey bespoke trousers. Toast crumbs clung to his freshly shaved chin. Under the table, John tentatively reached forward with a sock-clad toe to confirm that yes, Sherlock was barefoot.
Sherlock wiggled his toes under John’s foot, trapping it in place with his other foot.
“Christ, mate, your feet are freezing! Why are you barefoot?”
Sherlock waved a hand at him as if the subject of feet were simply too mundane for words. “Of course,” he posited, “I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying.”
John chuckled. “Pompous git. C’mere.” He beckoned with his hand.
When Sherlock leant forward, John wiped at the toast crumbs with his thumb before sticking said digit in his mouth.
“Mmmmmm. Did you eat the last piece of toast?”
“Probably. Didn’t know I was meant to be keeping track.”
John shook his head and looked back at his newspaper. “You were asking me something, weren’t you?”
“What?” Sherlock took another sip of tea. “Was I? Oh yes, do you have plans today? We haven’t any cases on.”
“I was just reading about a new exhibit at the Victoria and Albert--Oscar Wilde, coincidentally. Any interest?”
“The universe is rarely so lazy. Still, Victorian wit and aesthete? Could be intriguing.”
“And poet, playwright, and convicted deviant,” added John.
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“I ‘spose it is.” John pushed his finger onto his plate to collect toast crumbs. This he also popped into his mouth before asking, “Seriously, any more toast? Or bread at least?”
Sighing, Sherlock released John’s foot and unfolded himself from the table. John kept reading and was surprised when Sherlock held a plate with a single muffin on it under his nose.
“Where’d that come from?”
“Mrs. Hudson. Obviously.”
“She sent up only one muffin?”
Sherlock shrugged. “Lady Bracknell.”
“What?”
“Mycroft played Lady Bracknell at school.”
John took a bite of the muffin and, still chewing, asked, “What’s that got to do with muffins?”
“The truth, John, is rarely pure and never simple. There may have been four muffins earlier.”
John laughed. “You selfish prat! That settles it. You owe me a trip to the museum and lunch at Angelo’s.”
“Oh John, I thought you’d never get ‘round to asking.”
That evening they were both too full from their late lunch at Angelo’s to eat much for tea. John picked at the leftover curry he’d warmed up in the microwave. He managed to get a few bites into Sherlock as well, before slicing an apple and quietly handing his partner one piece at a time whilst the idiot worked at his computer. The good thing about Sherlock’s concentration was that John could get him to eat by taking advantage of automatic reactions. Apple slice in hand goes into the mouth. Once in the mouth, chew and swallow. Repeat. Flatmate fed without argument.
“I do know what you are doing, John. I just happen to be hungry.”
John hummed. “Of course.”
John turned the kettle on whilst he washed up the dishes. When he returned to the sitting room, Sherlock had closed his laptop and was tuning his violin. John set Sherlock’s cup of tea–-milk, two sugars–-on the desk and settled himself in his own chair.
Sherlock ran through some arpeggios, warming up his fingers, before playing a melody John didn’t recognize.
When it was finished, John commented, “I haven’t heard that one before, have I?”
“No. While it’s an old melody, I haven’t played it before.”
“And you just played it by ear for the first time? Amazing. What’s it called?”
“John.”
When John looked at him with his head cocked to the side in disbelief, Sherlock clarified, “I was able to play it by ear because I hear it every day. It is the song you sing with every movement and thought. It is the song you sing by existing.”
John lay on his side in their bed, facing Sherlock, who was lying on his back answering an email on his phone. John had propped his head up on one hand, absently petting Sherlock’s curls with the other.
“D’you ever think about what we would’ve done if we’d lived in, say, 1895?” he asked.
“Been very, very careful. Been confirmed bachelors. Or, possibly, you’d have married a very understanding woman. Which I would have hated, by the way.”
“Why would I be the one to marry?” asked John, smiling.
“Because you’ve actually had girlfriends. One might then assume they are your area. We’ve already established that they aren’t mine. I can’t imagine that a Victorian me would have a different opinion.”
“No,” John said, shaking his head and giggling a little. “I suppose not.” He rolled over onto his back. “I’m glad we can be ourselves.”
“Everyone else is already taken.”
Sherlock set his phone down on the nightstand and turned out the light. John held the blankets up without being asked, and Sherlock nestled onto his chest. John’s fingers found their way back to Sherlock’s curls.
“You are extraordinary, Sherlock Holmes.”
“Primarily because you treat me as such, John Watson. I’ve made it a point never to love anyone who treats me as if I were ordinary.”
John stopped petting him and curled himself around his best friend and lover. “So I’m not the first, then?”
“You know you’re not. I expect you are the last; you are certainly the best.”
“As are you, my love, as are you.”