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It is a Thursday.
John Watson does not enjoy Thursdays.
Primarily, this is because Thursdays at Baker Street are both boring and a source of conflict.
When John is working at the surgery, he doesn’t have any shifts on Thursdays, so unless Sherlock has a case on at the moment, John spends his day cleaning the flat, doing his laundry, and occasionally updating his blog. He also does the shopping for the week.
Since moving into 221B, John loathes shopping.
This is because Sherlock Holmes is impossible to shop for.
For a man who hardly eats unless John physically gives him food and watches until he finishes everything on his plate, Sherlock is a very picky eater. Since he took on the task of keeping them fed, John has heard nothing but complaints.
“I don’t like this marmalade.”
“Earl Grey is the swill of teas, John.”
“I don’t eat red pasta sauces.”
“Ugh, white bread? It’s completely devoid of nutritional value!”
(John strongly resists pointing out the irony that Sherlock, a man who is himself deficient in a number of nutrients, is complaining about the nutritional value of anything.)
Once their relationship moved from platonic to established, the complaints have, if possible, increased.
“Tuna salad? Are you sure this isn’t cat food from that old lady we investigated last week?”
“Beans on toast again? Man cannot live on beans alone, John.”
(Again, John refrains from telling his lanky partner that if it was up to him, man would live on nothing but the occasional pad Thai.)
So John has formulated a plan. He is determined never to hear another complaint about his menu choices or meal selections ever again.
This Thursday, Sherlock is doing the shopping.
“Do not be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock scoffs when John presents him with a list. “I don’t shop.”
“Today, you do,” John says firmly. Sherlock rolls his eyes and gives the little pathetic moan he uses when he feels life is unfair and that John is not realistic. John stands firm.
“Sherlock. All you do is complain. About everything! You clearly have preferences, and since I don’t know what they are, I need your help. Besides, if we have what you like, you’d eat more, wouldn’t you?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes again but clearly his heart is not in it.
“Fine. But you have to come and push the trolley.”
John conceals a smile. Sherlock buckled much quicker than he anticipated, and he’s glad to be going along in a supervisory capacity. Knowing Sherlock, he’d get bored partway through and come home with a liver from the butcher shop. Not to eat, but to dissect. “Sounds good to me.” He suggests walking to the Tesco, and Sherlock readily agrees.
They walk arm in arm, and John begins to relax; this is going easier than expected. Maybe this will be a painless experience and, with a little training, he can get Sherlock to take over the shopping completely.
But, as with so many things about the detective, he is completely deceived.
As soon as John pulls a trolley from the row of them, Sherlock scrambles into the basket. Folded in on himself, long legs sticking out the front, he crosses his arms and says peremptorily to John, “Tea aisle, please.”
John gapes at him. “Sherlock! I am not going to push a trolley through Tesco with a grown man in it! For God’s sake, even four-year-olds have to walk!”
Sherlock sets his face stubbornly. “I don’t know where anything is. I’ve never done this before. And, as I understood it, my role here is to point out what I like so you know what to get next time.”
John sighs and counts to ten. “So where exactly are we supposed to put things, then? You’re filling up the whole trolley.”
There is a long pause, and then Sherlock’s eyes close briefly and he sighs. “Fine. Help me out.”
With some pulling and mild cursing, and by bracing the trolley against the wall, John is able to help Sherlock heave himself out of the basket. Sherlock strands straight, dignified, pretending to ignore the curious stares around them. “Very well. Let’s get this over with.”
And so they shop. John shows Sherlock how he makes a sweep up and down each aisle, so he’s sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. As they go through pasta, tea and bread, Sherlock keeps up a steady commentary about the other customers, pausing only to say things like “No, not that marmalade. It’s too sweet; I like the other one,” and “I prefer oolong tea, John,” and “If you buy tuna again, I swear I will remove it from the tin and hide it somewhere in the flat.” John makes a note of his choices, and takes photos on his phone of some of Sherlock’s more obscure preferences. Eventually, Sherlock stops talking and just observes.
Just before they sweep into produce, John feels Sherlock press more closely into his side, and feels Sherlock’s hand steal under his arm to clasp his elbow. He glances to his left out of the corner of his eye. “Problem?”
Sherlock is silent. Then, “No. No, actually. This is... easier than I thought it would be. Not as hectic or busy.”
John smiles. “Well, it is Thursday afternoon.”
“I know, but, well. I don’t shop because I don’t like the crowds. So many people, so many ...” Sherlock’s lips twist. “So many loud children. And so many choices. It’s almost... Overwhelming,” he finishes, a bit lamely.
John’s heart melts a bit. He feels compassionate towards this man, his man, who willingly runs into dark alleys and across rooftops, but finds the Tesco overwhelming. He presses his arm into his side and squeezes Sherlock’s fingers. “Well, then...” and he trails off. He can’t find the words to express his feelings: that he is proud of Sherlock for doing something he hates, because he asked him to. That he is enjoying this mundane activity immensely. And that he is helplessly in love with someone who, just for him, has shown some vulnerability in a crowded grocery store.
When he looks at Sherlock, he finds he doesn’t have to say anything. The detective’s eyes say he understands everything John is thinking and more. He squeezes John’s elbow again and releases it, but still stands close beside him.
“I don’t mind bananas,” he says softly. John smiles.
“I hate them,” he says. “Let’s get apples instead.”