Archive of Our Own

1

“Happy Birthday,” John said, setting a wrapped box on the kitchen table by Sherlock’s elbow.

“My birthday was two weeks ago,” Sherlock replied without looking away from his microscope lens.

“I know.” John sounded indulgently amused, a sure sign he was proud of himself for his cleverness. “That’s why I didn’t give it to you until now.”

Sherlock spent another minute staring fixedly into his microscope, not wanting to encourage John too much. As per his caregiver personality, John found gift giving a way to demonstrate his aptitude as a provider through tangible objects. Though an excellent doctor, his efforts in this regard were frequently wasted on Sherlock. As with many other things he routinely failed at—lying convincingly, keeping a hold of his temper, maintaining a “normal” dating life—John was simply not as good at it as he thought he was. Sherlock had long since made it clear such gestures weren’t necessary, but John stubbornly persisted in being disappointed.

Finally, when John had begun to shift on his feet in a manner that meant he felt Sherlock had forgotten him and needed to be told again, Sherlock raised his head.

The box had been wrapped with precise military corners in Mrs. Hudson’s leftover Christmas wrapper from the past holiday what looked to be only a few days ago, judging from the lack of accumulated dust and still-clear cellotape. Sherlock reached out to lift the package and give it a shake to determine the contents, but John smacked his hands away.

“It’s my present, isn’t it?”

“For god’s sake, Sherlock, just open the damn thing. You don’t need to listen to it, or smell it, or whatever. You’re going to open it anyway.”

Sherlock frowned at him, but worked a finger under the closest taped edge anyway, neatly prying beneath the folds until he’d exposed the plain cardboard box underneath without tearing the paper. The cardboard was fresh, no identifying logos printed on the surface, and had already been opened by John to check the contents—John cleared his throat and Sherlock rolled his eyes, reaching in to lift the flaps.

Out came a bit of plain white packing paper, beneath which laid a lumpy object in a rather vibrant shade of yellow. Sherlock lifted it out, aghast. It appeared to be covered in little cartoon bees weaving stitch-mark trails behind them. It was also heavier than expected, shifting as he held it, and smelled faintly of lavender.

“What is it?”

“It’s a microwavable heat pack.” John beamed, looking more puffed up than ever. “It’s filled with barley, but this cover part is washable. You can also put it in the freezer for use as a cold pack.” 

Sherlock set it down on the table, where it flopped like jello coming out of the mold. He turned it over and found the split in the seam where the internal filling could be removed from the cover. Carefully, he prodded one of the bees with a finger.

“And why this color?”

“You mentioned you liked honeybees.” John looked positively chuffed at this pronouncement. “So I hunted down an online store that sold them with bee fabric. Molly helped me find it. Site called Etsy with loads of different options. I just chose the one I liked best.”

“These,” Sherlock interrupted before John could continue rambling, “are not anatomically correct bees.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but they don’t sell fabric with anatomically correct bees on it. Bee fabric is even rarer than fabric with anatomically correct humans on it.”

“Why didn’t you pick one with anatomically correct humans then? Much more apt than cartoon bees.”

“Couldn’t find any with that fabric. Bedding and novelty ties, yes, but not much else, and believe me I looked. I even thought about getting one custom-made, but that seemed a little morbid considering you’re meant to use it when hurt and we’ve more than enough anatomically correct human bits in the flat already.” 

With practiced ease Sherlock tuned him out. Inside the box was the printed inventory receipt, the amount and billing information carefully blacked out by John with a marker. There was also a little laminated card from a company called “Bee Healthy” with instructions which Sherlock skimmed quickly.

“Does it consistently hold heat for around half an hour?”

John stuttered to a halt in a rant about paisley, for some reason.

“Er, yes. Around that, though it depends how long you microwave it for.”

“I didn’t realize that barley had the capacity to conduct heat for that long.” 

Sherlock stared at the ghastly fabric in renewed interest and poked the heat pack again with his finger to test the density of the barley. 

“Hang on, really, Sherlock! I didn’t get you this to experiment on it, I—” John cut himself off and sighed. “Fine. It’s your gift to do with as you like I suppose. Only use it for its intended purpose at least once before destroying it, yeah?”

“Fine.” Sherlock agreed, even as he wondered which grains to test first.

“Sit down before you fall down,” John commanded, herding Sherlock up the stairs and into their flat with his usual bossiness.

“I’ll put the kettle on.”

Under other circumstances Sherlock might have protested, but it was all he could do to remove his coat and scarf with leaden movements and slump onto the sofa as he felt his transport quickly losing steam.

“Honestly,” John was saying in the kitchen, “I thought you had your Homeless Network for just this reason to have people spot you or help you on watch. Sitting in that position for so long and in the cold too. It might just be your ‘transport,’ but one day your body is going to betray you—”

His words faded into the background. Sherlock heard the clatter of the cabinets opening, the clink of mugs on the counter and then, unusually, the slam of the microwave door. He blinked his eyes open, not sure when he’d closed them, but couldn’t quite see what John was doing from the angle of the sofa.

John bustled back into the sitting room, steaming mug of tea in one hand and a plate of toast in another.

“Here,” he forced the mug into Sherlock’s hand, “drink this and eat the toast and then go to bed.”

Sherlock would have offered his usual protests, but John had turned back into the kitchen. Instead, he took a reflexive sip of the tea. It was delightfully warm.

The microwave beeped as Sherlock was nibbing at the toast, and he glanced up in time to catch John, jarringly yellow lump in hand, approaching with a look of stubborn determination on his face. Even in his tiredness Sherlock instantly recognized the item, that particular yellow hue difficult to forget, though he had entirely forgotten the existence of John’s gift prior to this point.

Without a word, John walked over and placed the heat pack across Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock’s brain, ceaseless machine though it was, stuttered, and his thoughts slowed to the pace of treacle. Heat suffused his entire body and the dull throb in his neck and upper back which he’d been attempting to ignore seemed to vanish entirely.

Sherlock slumped further into the sofa, barely aware of John hurriedly catching his tea mug and placing it on the coffee table.

Everything was warm and hazy and smelled comfortingly of lavender oatmeal.

Several hours later Sherlock awoke on the sofa. John had removed his shoes and covered him with a blanket, but left the half-drunk tea and the barely-touched toast, which Sherlock appreciated because it allowed him to estimate the time that had passed by the congealed butter on the bread. Alongside the plate and mug sat the bee-emblazoned heat pack. It was cold to the touch when Sherlock reached out to pick it up.

“Feel better?” John asked from his chair when Sherlock stood up, heat pack in hand.

“Aren’t you glad you didn’t experiment on it now?”

John sounded insufferably smug at his success, and Sherlock ignored him. Let John believe himself right too often and soon he’d be expecting Sherlock to eat every day or to get more than a few hours’ sleep on a regular basis, which was both unacceptable and impossible.

He opened the microwave, shoved the heat pack in, and closed the door before hovering indecisively over the keypad. He could estimate the amount of time John had used previously, but having not been entirely attentive before he couldn’t deduce the exact amount and didn’t want to repeat the experiment without making sure to replicate all previous conditions.

“How long?”

“Two minutes, thirty seconds.”

Sherlock’s finger hovered a few seconds longer before punching in two minutes, forty-five seconds. It would be better to establish a control when he was feeling more observant, otherwise the results would end up skewed.

Sherlock waited impatiently for the microwave to finish, watching the yellow pack rotate on the internal turntable. John didn’t say anything during that time, but Sherlock knew he was paying attention from the desultory rate at which he turned the pages of his book.

After the timer went off he snatched the heat pack and retreated to his bedroom, waiting until after the door was shut before settling it over his shoulders.

Sherlock heard the downstairs door close and tensed before forcibly relaxing. The heat had just reached the point where it changed from a-little-too-hot to blissful. He refused to let Mycroft’s presence ruin his good mood.

His brother’s steps sounded on the stairs and the door opened.

“Hello, Sherlock, I’ve brought—”

Mycroft cut himself off, tapping his umbrella harder upon the floor than intended in his shock. Sherlock would have liked to relish the look on his face, but he wasn’t motivated enough to move from where he lay facedown on the sofa.

“Good lord, what is that thing you have on your neck?”

Sherlock turned his mouth out of the cushion just enough to be audible.

“It’s a barley heating pack patterned with anatomically incorrect bees.”

There was a brief silence during which he knew Mycroft was staring in horrified fixation at the garish fabric and attempting to determine if or when he’d somehow gone wrong to lead Sherlock into such an ill-advised fashion decision.

“A gift from John, I take it?”

Sadly, any hope that Mycroft thought Sherlock had made the purchase himself and would subsequently leave in distressed regret over all of the meddling he’d done in Sherlock’s life was immediately crushed.

Sherlock raised his head to glare balefully at his brother. Stronger words were clearly necessary to get Mycroft to leave him alone. 

“Yes, and it can also be put in the freezer for use as a cold pack to chill your fat head!”

Mycroft stared at him a moment. Sherlock dropped back onto the sofa as petulantly as he could with only a few centimeters’ distance to work with.

“I’ll just leave this here and return next when John’s home, shall I?”

Sherlock grunted what could have been agreement or what could have been a florid deprecation about Mycroft’s metabolic rate into the cushion. Mycroft left without another word. 

After his brother’s tread had faded from the stairs and the downstairs door had opened and shut again Sherlock growled angrily into the sofa. Damn Mycroft! He’d completely missed the peak minutes of optimum heat and would have to microwave it again.

He was distantly aware of the tittering coming from behind him. With very little thought he could tell at what distance and from whom the noise emanated, but Sherlock ignored them to better concentrate on the woman’s body laid out on the floor in front of him. No signs of a struggle or bruising about her throat. Poisoning, perhaps. But, no, the mottled discoloration of her face and over her exposed skin seemed more consistent with—

Louder behind him, the sound of a new voice. John had finally arrived. Sherlock didn’t raise his head, only waited for John to join him by the body.

“John,” he started as soon as he heard the scuff of John’s shoes on the floor beside him, “cause of death is asphyxiation. Obvious. The lack of a struggle could mean poison, but the evidence points in favor of toxic carbon monoxide inhalation. Thoughts?”

“Sherlock, why are you wearing that?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn’t look away from the corpse.

“Testing the rate of heat retention under average London weather conditions. The body, John.”

John sighed and Sherlock finally spared him a glance knowing they would be on the topic some moments longer before John would give his professional opinion.

“Problem?” 

“Sherlock…”

Without asking, John reached over and plucked the heat pack from where Sherlock had draped it around his neck. His disapproving frown over John interfering in his experiment was summarily ignored as John felt for any remaining heat and raised his eyebrow when he found none.

“I’m glad you like your present.” 

There was a hint of a laugh in John’s voice, but Sherlock didn’t even need to flip through his mental catalogue of observations about John to hear the laughter mingled with fond exasperation. Despite that his neck was now exposed to the cold air of the abandoned building, for some reason the sound of John’s amusement sunk like heat into his skin, warming him as if the heat pack had never lost its ideal temperature to another gray London evening and still rested over his neck.

“But you can’t wear this about like a scarf. It’s nearly a kilogram, Sherlock.” John hefted it in his hands as if to demonstrate its weight. “You’re going to strain your neck wearing it out of the flat like that.”

One-handed, John unwound the scarf from his own neck and draped it over Sherlock’s.

“Now, what was that about carbon monoxide?”

With precise movements Sherlock tied off the scarf and tucked the trailing ends into his coat. He glanced at the cheerful yellow of the heat pack in John’s hands, the color brilliant in the rundown room, then returned his attention to the body.

2

John didn’t say anything when he sat down on the other side of the small cafe table, only lifted the coffee Sherlock had bought him to his lips. Out of the corner of his eye Sherlock caught the expression of appreciative surprise when John found it was still warm, but didn’t look away from his view of the street. They sat in silence for long minutes before John grunted and began rummaging in his coat pockets.

“Before you inevitably go haring off into the street,” he found whatever he was looking for and set it down triumphantly on the table next to Sherlock’s coffee, “here.”

Sherlock turned his head to keep the street in his peripheral vision and picked up the small tube of what turned out to be lip balm branded with the name of the same company from which John had ordered his heat pack.

“Beeswax lip balm,” John explained unnecessarily because Sherlock had already found the list of ingredients on the tube, “along with some other, er, bee byproducts.”

Royal jelly and propolis, read the tube, along with various plant oils and peppermint for flavoring.

Some of the confidence with which John had presented the lip balm faded. He was obviously uncertain of Sherlock’s reception of his gift from the way he’d begun to nervously fidget with his coffee cup.

“You’re always running around outside doing god-knows-what and neglecting to eat and rest, so your lips are probably constantly chapped.” He explained hurriedly. “It’ll also work as lotion in a pinch. Eczema seems inconvenient for detective work.”

Before John could begin babbling in earnest, Sherlock removed the strip of tape keeping the tube sealed and twisted off the cap to apply it to his mouth. The balm felt soothing against his skin, which was admittedly a little wind burnt, though not to a degree he couldn’t ignore it easily.

Sherlock pressed his lips together to distribute the balm more evenly and saw John’s eyes dart to his mouth before a pleased smile spread across his own lips. He reminded himself to check later if the balm left a sheen on his lips, though he thought it felt much less greasy than other products.

When Sherlock pocketed the tube John’s smile grew wider, though he immediately tried to hide the expression by taking a large gulp of his coffee. They sat at the table together, John working his way through his lukewarm coffee, until Sherlock saw his mark, John right behind him as he flew out the door.

3

Sherlock bellowed for John several times before it occurred to him that his flatmate and blogger wasn’t home, whereupon he began bellowing for Mrs. Hudson instead. After an unknown period of time during which a mug of tea did not suddenly appear at his elbow, Sherlock tore himself away from his slides with a huff of annoyance at the inconvenience and went to make the tea himself.

There was an unfamiliar jar stored beside their tea things, a more familiar logo emblazoned across it. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the jar. Honey, of course, judging from the color and consistency, it being housed with the tea, and John’s newfound obsession with honeybee-related products from the online store Molly Hooper had irresponsibly helped him locate. The lack of crystallization meant that this was a recent addition to the flat, and Sherlock tried to remember the number of times in the past week John had made him tea with honey instead of sugar, or gave him buttered toast with honey when Sherlock admitted under duress he’d yet to eat that day.

On pressing his memory, he could recall John giving him tea with a vaguely guilty air a few days ago. Considering that John persisted in thinking Sherlock could take one look at his face and know every one of his sins from the past two weeks—which was often true but frequently took several seconds of focused observation to ascertain the exact details of John’s perceived misdemeanors, longer than what could be gleaned in one disinterested glance—John was frequently vaguely guilty over everything from hoping Sherlock wouldn’t deduce the contents of his internet history from the bags under his eyes, to his regret over being in a bad mood and not holding the door for the person behind him at Tesco’s.

That day John’s guilt had vanished comparatively quickly and since he’d been planning to go to the pub with a friend who Sherlock later identified as Lestrade, he’d decided John had yet again been reassuring himself that Sherlock wouldn’t be hurt on not being invited and subsequently dismissed the entire incident. Likely some of John’s behavior had been inspired by his evening plans, but perhaps—

Ah, yes, John’s email trash folder held a confirmation of shipment for the honey dated from the beginning of the week. That John had hidden his guilt over feeding Sherlock a new brand of honey without telling him beneath his misgivings over not inviting Sherlock out seemed uncharacteristically disingenuous of him. On the other hand, Sherlock himself was guilty of having secretly fed John things that might be considered by some less innocent than expensive, locally-sourced raw honey.

There was also a high chance he was reading too much into John’s actions considering his own past behavior. It was unlikely John’s personality had undergone such a shift that he was now experimenting on Sherlock for mysterious reasons. Probably John’s strange guilt over giving Sherlock a present without informing him of such was another consequence of his irrational hangups regarding gift-giving.

Sherlock was going to have to keep an eye on him in future. It couldn’t be healthy for John to be enslaved by another of his preposterous neuroses. He might need Sherlock’s help to snap him out of it.

John, unobservant though he was, noticed the jar of honey sitting on the table the moment he stepped into the kitchen. Sherlock, mostly concentrating on his experiment, took note of his expression. Surprise, chagrin, happiness, and a touch of nerves all flickered their way over his face until his features settled into cautious pleasure.

“You found the honey then. Do you like it?”

Sherlock wrote an observation in his logbook without looking up.

“You’ve been giving it to me over the past few days. Is there some reason I shouldn’t?”

“How did you—”

It didn’t matter how many times Sherlock deduced him, John never stopped being astonished.

“No, nevermind, you’re right, it’s not as if I was trying to hide it. I figured you would’ve said something before now if you didn’t like it, but I wanted to ask anyway.”

“It’s fine.” Though he continued writing, part of Sherlock paused at the disappointment that flashed over John’s face.

“It’s...good.” He tried again, and John’s face cleared somewhat. “How ‘local’ is the honey?”

John brightened further.

“Eating local honey can help fight allergies, but only if the bees producing it get their pollen and nectar from plants in the same area.” Sherlock knew this already, but John was so enthusiastic he decided not to interrupt. “There are a number of urban hives spread out over London, but this honey was produced by honeybees living on the roof of the University of London’s Law building.”

John grinned.

“You could say that they’re legal bees.”

Sherlock snorted in surprise, unable to hide the way the corners of his mouth turned up at John’s awful pun.

“How long have you been waiting to make that joke?”

“Since the honey came in the mail a couple of days ago.” John giggled. “Greg said it’d be a bloody miracle if eating it made you even a little less likely to break laws and ignore Yard protocol.”

“Even if osmosis worked like that,”Sherlock said dryly, “it would take more than a few teaspoons a day to make me fill out the Met’s insipid paperwork willingly.”

John laughed and picked up the jar of honey.

“Ta, mate, that’s what I told Greg. Tea?”

He moved automatically to the kettle and was already taking down a second mug when Sherlock murmured affirmation. Shortly after, a steaming mug of tea appeared at his elbow, and Sherlock reached for it with a contented smile. Somehow, though Sherlock was well aware of how to make tea no matter how John complained, when he did it never tasted the same as the tea made by Mrs. Hudson or John.

The mug in his hands tasted sweeter somehow, even though John had confirmed himself that he’d been making the same thing for Sherlock over the past several days. Maybe John had decided to add more honey now that he wasn’t trying to keep it a secret from Sherlock. He squinted in confusion at his tea and resolved to watch how John prepared it the next time he made Sherlock a cuppa.

4

Sherlock poured the chemical in his beaker into the waiting flask and jumped back with a hiss and a muttered curse when the flask shattered. His experiment was ruined now, broken pieces of glass spread across the kitchen table and floor while the chemicals dripped from a puddle over the edge of the table. He should probably clean that up before it ate through anything.

John would get shirty if he came home to acid burns on the furniture and flooring and his shouting would inevitably rouse Mrs. Hudson, who would chide them again and take the money for repairs out of their rent, which would only make John yell more. Sherlock shook himself before the mental exercise of imagining the scenario could exhaust him, and went to find the ratty clean-up towels.

After mopping up the spilled chemicals and sweeping up the glass, Sherlock took off his safety goggles and made to remove his gloves before realizing that the thin trickle of fluid on his left hand was blood, not a chemical stain. His safety gloves were chemical resistant, but apparently hadn’t been thick enough to protect him from the shard of glass that was sticking out of his glove from where it had lodged in his hand.

He carefully pulled the piece of glass out with the tweezers in the medical kit John kept in the bathroom, rinsing the wound out and cleaning it thoroughly. Once cleaned he could see that it wasn’t a deep cut, but the blood still leaking sluggishly from it had Sherlock reaching for a box of sticking plasters.

Instead of the boxes of generically flesh-toned plasters normally found in the kit he pulled out a box decorated with—

Sherlock frowned at the box and took out the others from the kit. There was a selection of sizes and shapes available, but each box pictured a zoomed-in view of the plasters inside, all of them patterned with artistically-rendered yellow-and-brown-striped honeybees.

Where had John found what had to be children’s sticking plasters in this many varieties? More importantly, why had he replaced all of the perfectly-serviceable plasters in his kit with children’s bee-patterned sticking plasters?

Sherlock had thought John’s newfound interest in bees and bee-related products somewhat strange, but not unduly worrying. But four times now wasn’t a coincidence, it was a very clear pattern. John was obsessed.

Had this been Sherlock’s fault somehow? Had his pleased reception of John’s bee-decorated heating pack at his birthday unleashed the floodgates on a hitherto unknown bee-themed gift-giving mania?

Sherlock put all of the plaster boxes back in the kit where he’d found them and reached for a pad of sterile gauze instead. He’d apply pressure to the cut and determine the reasoning behind John’s behavior while he waited for the bleeding to stop.

“If just once you could run away from danger instead of towards it, my blood pressure would really appreciate it,” John growled as he unlocked their sitting room door.

“You’re lucky you didn’t have to go to A&E!”

“It was only a small explosion.”

John huffed loudly and whirled around to face Sherlock, blocking the doorway with his body.

“You’re right! A small explosion! Yes, thank you, that makes me feel so much better!”

Sherlock sniffed and looked down his nose at the shorter man, which had the anticipated result of making John puff out his chest further in aggravation.

“I’ve learned from multiple failed attempts that it’s pointless trying to soothe your feelings when you’re like this. I’m merely stating fact.”

John growled again, lower in his throat this time, and stalked inside without a word, leaving Sherlock to trail after him into the flat. But despite his anger, John returned quickly with their medical kit clutched in white-knuckled hands.

“Hold still and let me see the damage. I know you were shamming for Greg and the paramedics, but you did a good enough job of it you can’t have been hurt too badly.”

As usual, it was on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue to protest or to redirect John’s attention, but John was like a bloodhound when it came to Sherlock’s health. It might take days, it might take months, but if John found out Sherlock had lied to him about being hurt there would be hell to pay. It was better to let John have his way initially than to suffer the consequences of his stroppy moods later, which usually manifested as John refusing to fetch Sherlock things or make Sherlock tea and clouding Sherlock’s thoughts and the air in their flat with his sullen anger. Plus, John was always much more biddable immediately after Sherlock’s easy compliance. Sherlock very much preferred John smug with doctorly satisfaction at having patched Sherlock up than glowering in his chair and pointedly ignoring Sherlock.

In response, Sherlock stiffly held out his arms, drawing attention to the singed and soot-blackened sleeves of his suit jacket. John tsked at the small charred holes in the fabric through which the material of Sherlock’s shirt was visible, and opened the kit.

“I’m going to cut your jacket off; it’s ruined anyway.”

Jacket disposed of, John carefully undid the buttons at Sherlock’s shirt cuffs and hissed sympathetically when folding the sleeves back revealed bright pink, inflamed skin.

“Were you burnt anywhere else?”

Sherlock shook his head as John started undoing the cuffs on his other arm.

“No. I shielded my head with my arms and they took the worst of the heat.”

John began gently feeling the reddened skin.

“Hurts?”

“Tender,” Sherlock corrected, but the way he winced when John found a particularly sensitive spot gave him away.

John made a noise part disbelieving scoff, part amused snort and started undoing Sherlock’s shirt buttons.

“Alright, let’s get this off of you.”

With slow, methodical movements he eased the fabric down Sherlock’s arms, taking care not to brush against the raw skin of his forearms.

“If the weather had been colder your bloody dramatic coat would have saved your suit and your arms. You’re going to have to wear something less fitted until you heal to avoid irritating your skin.”

John sat back and gave Sherlock’s bare chest a thorough inspection, ignoring Sherlock’s raised eyebrow until he was satisfied there wasn’t any more damage. Then he began digging in the part of the kit containing bandages and wrappings.

“I’ve been excited to try these out, but I wish it could have been under better circumstances.” 

Instantly Sherlock snapped to attention, eyes darting from John’s face to where he was rummaging in the medical kit. He tensed, remembering what he’d been doing when Lestrade called with a case. The gauze had been binned, but Sherlock had meant to return to the problem of John and bees as soon as the case was finished.

“Of course,” John continued, a box not decorated with honeybees in his hand, “‘better circumstances’ would mean not using these at all.”

He fiddled with the packaging and ended up holding something that looked like bandaging in a suspicious shade of golden-brown.

“There’s been a number of studies done lately on the wound healing properties of New Zealand Manuka honey. It’s also an effective first-aid treatment for burns.”

“John.”

The doctor looked up from where he was placing one of the honey bandages over Sherlock’s forearm. 

“Sorry, does it sting? It shouldn’t, but I haven’t ever used these myself, so I don’t know what it feels like. I thought it’d be worth trying anything that might reduce your recovery time and the amount of time you spend laid up bored on the sofa and shouting for me to do all of your menial tasks.”

Though the words he needed to get to the bottom of John’s current fascination with bees sat prepared and ready on Sherlock’s tongue, he couldn’t manage to make his mouth open and say them. He realized suddenly how close John’s face was to his own and how very earnest and blue John’s eyes were. His earlier anger had completely evaporated while taking care of Sherlock, the smile he wore and the lack of bite to his words making it clear he wasn’t really complaining.

It was always like that with John. He might start out enraged to the point of shouting over the extent of Sherlock’s injuries, but over the course of treatment his fury would slough away until it had either lost most of its force, or it had been condensed into a form that had him lashing out with barbed comments he might have only incoherently stuttered his way through before.

Something about using his medical skills made John steady in the same way that putting the taste of danger in his mouth and a gun in his hand made his aim steady. Sherlock often envied this ability of John’s to focus both in the rush of a case and in the downtime afterwards. It was a talent he didn’t and would likely never have.

John finished covering Sherlock’s burns with the honey bandages and loosely wrapped them with plain gauze to protect them and prevent the honey from smearing before removing his gloves.

“There. Will you need any help dressing?”

Sherlock shook his head in the negative and made to stand, but John suddenly clapped a hand on his shoulder to prevent him from rising.

“Hang on, I just realized you’ve got a scrape on your forehead.”

“Don’t bother. The paramedics already disinfected it at the scene and it’s too small to need anything else.”

“It’s right at your hairline,” John insisted, already rooting around in his medical kit. “You’re sure to bump it if it’s not covered.”

Sherlock was about to stand anyway and put an end to the issue through physical distance, but John was leaning in close to him again, tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth as he laid a plaster over the cut.

“Okay, you’re done. Try not to get the gauze caught on anything, yeah? I don’t want to have to rewrap it before I change the dressing.”

Sherlock muttered a vague assurance that had John turning away in satisfaction to repack his kit, and went to his bedroom to change into a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. He could still feel the warmth and the light pressure of John’s thumb smoothing the ends of the plaster against his skin, even though the contact hadn’t lasted longer than a few seconds.

When he went to the bathroom, convinced there had to be some physical reason for the phantom touch he’d be able to identify with the aid of a mirror, he found that there was a honeybee stuck to his forehead.

5

“John, I need another!”

Sherlock slammed through the flat and whirled into the kitchen, startling John into nearly dropping the kettle and spilling boiling water on himself.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock!”

Sherlock jabbed at the keypad on the microwave before stalking down the hallway to his bedroom, ignoring John who had recovered enough to start asking questions.

Exactly two minutes, forty-five seconds later he emerged in dressing gown and pajamas just as the microwave announced the readiness of his heat pack with a sharp ding. John came over holding a mug of tea out with one hand as Sherlock was settling it across his shoulders. Pleased, Sherlock made to take it from him and frowned when John immediately pulled it out of reach.

“What ‘another,’ Sherlock?”

His voice held the note of exasperation that meant this was not the first time he’d asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Really, John. Another heating pack! This one covers a limited surface area and I have to wait for the microwave whenever it loses heat. Both of those problems could be remedied if I had a spare.” 

John sighed but let Sherlock have the mug. 

“Bloody hell, you are obsessed, aren’t you?”

Sherlock paused on his way to the sofa and looked over his shoulder at John as he moved to pick up his own mug, unaware of Sherlock’s scrutiny.

“I’m not the one who keeps filling the flat with bee-related objects.”

“Of course not,” John scoffed. “You’d fill the flat with chemistry equipment and bits of dead people if you could get away with it.”

“My point is that of the two of us, your behavior is more obsessive than mine.”

John raised both eyebrows and walked over to sit in his armchair.

“Sorry, have you met yourself? If you open up the dictionary I’m pretty sure it’s your picture there next to the word. And trying to get you to take better care of yourself isn’t obsessive. It’s normal, and if you hadn't deleted self preservation you'd understand that."

“How does appealing to my interest in Apis mellifera relate to looking after my health?”

John shrugged.

“You like bees. You don’t like looking after yourself. I thought if I could associate the one with the other you might be more enthusiastic about it.”

He nodded at Sherlock perching on the sofa as moist heat soaked into his shoulders, back, and neck.

“Seems like it worked.”

“I know in the past you’ve considered me a challenge for finding ‘the perfect gift,’ but if I’d known it would launch you on this single-minded campaign, I might have rethought accepting your birthday present.”

Despite his words, Sherlock made no move to take off the heat pack.

"I’m not a child you can entice by offering a favorite sweet.”

“Yeah, I know you’re not a child. Though the way you act sometimes makes it really hard to tell the difference.” John muttered snidely.

“Saying it’s a ‘campaign’ makes it sound like this was some sort of war I waged against you. It’s not like that.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Your dedication in replacing all of the plasters in your kit with children’s honeybee plasters suggests otherwise.”

John had the grace to look embarrassed, but rallied quickly.

“You wore that plaster for over half a day, which is half a day longer than you normally wear them when you aren’t bleeding and don’t think you need them. So you can’t say I’m wrong for thinking bees provide a bit of positive reinforcement.”

He shook his head and barrelled on before Sherlock could interrupt.

“Look, it’s not about— It doesn’t have to be about bees, if that’s what bothers you so much. I was just trying to find something you’d accept and thought it’d work better if I started with bees.

“Here, I’ll prove it.” He started rolling up his sleeves. “Lie down.”

Sherlock immediately began considering situations in which John would need his hands free while Sherlock laid down, finally selecting the most likely and lowering himself to his stomach on the sofa.

Even though he was expecting it, he felt instantly bereft when John removed the heat pack from his shoulders. It had still been quite comfortably warm and Sherlock was thinking absently of microwaving it again later until the moment John’s hands settled on his back. The first touch was light and testing, smoothing up and down over the fabric of his dressing gown in soothing circles. John started rubbing in confident, methodical strokes that had Sherlock sighing and relaxing further into the cushions.

Much like John himself, his technique was firm and determined, seeking out and locating all the tender spots Sherlock hadn’t even known existed, steadily wearing away at them with rhythmic motions from his hands and fingers. He found a knot and pressed into it, pressed and held, and Sherlock’s hiss of pain turned into a moan of pleasure. He tried to stifle the sounds, but gave up when they were ripped from his throat every time John worked a kink out of his muscles.

Finally, after Sherlock’s entire body had been reduced to the consistency of overcooked pasta, John stopped.

“You’ve been able to do that this entire time,” Sherlock groaned into the sofa, astonished at how hoarse his voice sounded.

Despite his limp muscles, he managed to turn his head so he could see John out of the corner of his eye. John was flushed and slightly out of breath from the exertion, but obviously quite pleased with himself for the effect he’d had on Sherlock.

“I’m not certified or anything. Going through physical therapy after being shot made me interested in massage. I can’t give myself one, but offering her a back rub is about the only way to get Harry to forgive me after we’ve had a really awful row.”

"Effective," Sherlock agreed. "Maybe you should offer criminals massages instead of threatening them with your gun."

"That'll work well: 'Hey, would you mind not gutting my friend? Yeah, the ruddy tall bloke with the cheekbones trying to stop your dastardly plans. He's kind of a tit but if you leave him alone I'll give you a back rub.'"

John giggled and waved his fingers in the air beseechingly.

"'Finest massages on three continents.'"

"You'll have the criminal elements of London falling at your feet."

“I’ll put you out of a job,” John warned, trying to sound serious and failing when he laughed mid-word and had to restart. “No more locked-room mysteries for you.”

With a grunt of effort, Sherlock rolled himself over until he lay on his back. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin in mock-thought, lips twitching when John let out a loud snort.

“Then I’ll just have to become a consulting masseuse. The only one in the world after I invent the profession.”

John’s entire body shook with the force of his laughter, curling into himself as he tried to stay upright.

“W-Will you deduce what types of massages people should have? Mud baths for cheating spouses and the sauna for corrupt politicians?”

“And for Anderson,” Sherlock intoned with great drama, “several hours locked in a room with the relaxing sounds of whales and the rainforest.”

They both broke down into breathless, gasping laughter. John was slumped on the floor next to the sofa, hunched over the cushions as he giggled into the fabric. Sherlock could feel the heat of his head soaking into Sherlock’s hip where it was pressed and had the sudden urge to run his hand through John’s sandy hair, to catch his attention and see the mirth suffusing his face. Mentioning criminals had triggered an associated desire to check his phone, but Sherlock decided that he was too relaxed to care. Any crimes interesting enough to tear him away from John in this moment would be too complicated for the police to solve on their own anyway. 

Eventually John’s laughter faded into wheezing breaths. He sat up with one last chuckle, wiping moisture from the corners of his eyes.

“If you’d offered before now, I would have accepted.”

John looked at him, still smiling.

“Would you though? You hate sitting still for anything that doesn’t keep your brain busy. I didn’t think ‘for your health’ would be a good enough reason until I saw how much you liked your heat pack.”

Sherlock blinked in surprise before his mouth split in a wide, delighted grin.

“John! Were you experimenting on me?”

John blushed.

“You know, anyone else would be angry.”

Sherlock waved at him with an impatient hand.

“Why would I be angry with you for testing a hypothesis? I thought you might have been, but I couldn’t understand the fixation on bees.” 

“Well, now you know. Sherlock Holmes is more cooperative when bees are involved. Not sure how I’ll use that to bribe you the next time Greg needs you to fill out paperwork at NSY or you have to go to A&E, but I’m sure I’ll come up with something.”

At the reminder, Sherlock sat up and gestured imperiously, holding out an open palm.

“Phone, John.”

“I knew that was too good to last,” John muttered as he stood up, very little heat behind his words. “Alright, where is it?”

“My bedroom, bedside table.”

John returned with Sherlock’s mobile in hand, but as he had done earlier the instant Sherlock reached out to claim it John pulled it out of reach.

“Try taking it easy—easier for once, yeah? It’d be a shame to have to redo all the work I just did on your back.”

Though he smiled easily, there was worry in John’s eyes and a little tick in his jaw as if he wanted to say more but was holding himself back. Implicit in his statement was both his willingness to give Sherlock another massage if necessary, and the faith that nothing would happen to Sherlock to prevent John from being able to do so. He made no attempt to tell Sherlock what to do, and wasn’t holding his mobile hostage for any other reason than to ensure he had Sherlock’s attention.

Sherlock stretched out again for the phone, and this time when John moved to give it up willingly he let his hand rest over the curve of John’s wrist instead of taking it.

“I won’t make any promises I can’t keep.”

Sherlock’s grasp on the morality of lying was dubious at best. For the Work he had, and did, use every tool he possessed to gather the clues he needed for his deductions. Before John this had never bothered him overmuch, but gaining a friend had taught him that sometimes it was necessary to obey and respect the unspoken line in the sand, not step over as he so often did. He’d never have John’s morality—that quality that so frequently ruined his attempts at lying because John legitimately felt bad about misleading others, distressed or not, and frequently sabotaged himself with his guilt. But Sherlock had come to recognize that honesty was as important a tool, if not more so, than lying, especially when it came to John Watson.

As much as Sherlock felt sometimes in the thrill of the chase that he’d rather return to the time before having a blogger without the incessant nagging about eating and sleeping and tending to his wounds, he knew that the part of John that insisted on these things couldn’t simply be turned off the same way Sherlock muted his own biological “imperatives.” And in the end he’d much rather have John by his side to badger and harangue than an empty flat and all the space in the world to experiment without complaint.

He thought he’d been getting better lately at identifying those moments when he most needed to treat John’s concerns seriously instead of brushing them aside as things that would only slow him down. In this case, it didn’t take a genius to read the weight of caring written across every inch of John’s face, but Sherlock would not lie to him. John deserved his honesty, even if he might not like the answer he received. 

He knew he’d said the right thing when John smiled and the familiar creases reappeared in the corner of his eyes. John gently moved his wrist out of Sherlock’s grip and turned his hand until the mobile rested cradled between both of their palms. Sherlock tightened his fingers to accept it and John folded his hand over top and squeezed before releasing.

“Just as long as you try.”

Without waiting for a response he picked up the heat pack and went into the kitchen. Sherlock, fingers flying over his mobile, heard the opening and closing of the microwave door as John replaced the pack for the next time Sherlock wanted it.

+1

Sherlock belly-flopped onto the sofa in a way that made his dressing gown flare eye-catchingly wide. He turned to look at John expectantly, sat in his chair with the newspaper open in his hands and an empty mug of tea on the table at his side. His flatmate, doctor, blogger, and more recently, personal masseuse didn’t even twitch.

Sherlock folded his arms under his head and settled in to wait.

John turned a page with a jerky too-fast movement, clearly aware of Sherlock’s stare despite his attempt to appear otherwise. The paper rustled as he shook the contents back into alignment and his hands clenched on the edges of it, now chiding himself for overcompensating while Sherlock was watching. Still pretending to read, John reached for his empty mug and had raised it to his lips before he realized his mistake. With a loud, aggrieved sigh John put it back down. Sherlock smiled in triumph and closed his eyes as if he hadn’t been watching John the entire time. There was the crinkle of cheap newsprint as John closed the paper and set it aside, and then the creak of John’s chair and the dull thud of his footsteps on the rug.

“I didn’t give you a massage the first time as an excuse for you to abuse your back again.” 

John’s voice was long-suffering with exasperation. Sherlock cracked open an eye to glance at John and found him methodically rolling up his sleeves. Reassured, he closed his eyes and lowered his head.

“You miscalculated, John.”

As always, the first touch of John’s hands had him relaxing further into the cushions with a deep sigh.

“You’ve become an incentive, not a deterrent.”

John laid a palm flat in the middle of Sherlock’s back and abruptly pushed straight down, pinning Sherlock to the sofa just enough to make him feel a little squashed, but not enough to truly obstruct his breathing.

“You might not be aware, but there are professionals whose job it is to do this.”

There was laughter in his voice. The hand on Sherlock’s back stopped pressing down and began stroking between his shoulder blades. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but allowed his body to go limp again.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know I don’t like touching other people.”

“It might help, Sherlock. I wasn’t trained at this. There’s only so much I can do.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, air escaping his teeth in a hiss when John’s unerring aim located a knot and started working away at it. After it was gone John switched to drawing gentle circles over the surface of Sherlock’s back to soothe the sting.

“Though I suppose I shouldn’t complain when you willingly let me do this without making a fuss. Maybe bees aren’t the only thing that make you cooperative.”

John continued his massage, Sherlock barely able to hear his scolding through the half-meditative state having John’s hands on his back always seemed to inspire. He was contemplating the idea of descending into his mind palace and using his current position as an opportunity for both a physical and a mental cleansing, when something about John’s words caught his attention.

This wasn’t the first time John had obliquely referred to Sherlock’s interest in bees as if his academic fascination could somehow influence him to complete any number of undesirable tasks. John was wrong, of course, but not entirely, and that puzzled him. Sherlock used the things he’d been gifted because they worked, irrespective of having been produced by or decorated to look like honeybees. But John was right too: Sherlock had completely stopped taking sugar in his tea when at home even though liquid honey was harder to portion out than sugar, and he had worn the plaster on his forehead for hours longer than was really necessary especially when it itched.

John stroked Sherlock once straight down his spine before patting him twice on the back and saying something that was likely affectionate judging by the tone of his voice. Sherlock hummed an absent response, too busy turning this new problem about in his mind to bother actually listening to what John had said.

All of John’s presents were simple and served a set purpose, specifically one aimed at promoting Sherlock’s health. He’d accepted and made use of them, each a small improvement on his life, though of course not in any way he was unable to live without. Yet there was some other reason at work beyond straightforward utility or a sense of minor indulgence. John’s words bothered him because, as he frequently did during Sherlock’s casework, he’d unwittingly revealed an inconsistency.

If bees weren’t the least common denominator, what was?

Sherlock blinked in confusion at finding himself sprawled across the sofa on his belly and flipped himself over in a deft twist that kept his dressing gown from tangling up around him. He steepled his fingers together beneath his chin and stared unseeingly at the ceiling, certain that his favorite thinking position would help him find the answer.

A problem like this called for nicotine patches, but Sherlock was unwilling to get up now that he’d settled down. Instead he began reviewing each gift as they’d been given to him, his reception of them, and John’s subsequent reactions.

The barley heat pack he’d almost rejected based solely on its ridiculous design, but it had lead him to explore the heat retention quality of grains in far greater detail since the abortive explosive flour experiment of a few years back and— Fine. Being tall meant frequently bending and crouching and leaning down to examine things. He’d grown used to ignoring the neck strain this sometimes caused, but John’s thoughtful gift meant he didn’t have to, and John was certainly pleased that Sherlock was purposely seeking out relief rather than brushing aside the concerns of his transport.

The lip balm was extremely practical too considering the amount of time Sherlock spent out of doors on various errands, and unlike the heat pack it was portable and didn’t attract unwanted staring. Additionally, whenever John saw him apply it he’d smile and—

Oh!

Was it really that simple? Obvious! Of course that was the answer—

Sherlock paused, went back over the path of deductions he’d followed to reach that point. It was a likely solution, but he’d need to run tests to be certain, as it was useless to theorize without all the data.

Satisfied with the success of his mental exercise, Sherlock sat up with a triumphant grin. The flat was dark, the windows outside lit only by streetlights and the headlamp of a passing car. John had gone to bed hours ago, but he’d left a folded blanket over the back of the sofa just in case Sherlock woke up cold in the few hours before the early summer dawn.

Sherlock reached into his dressing gown pocket and found the tube of beeswax lip balm. He applied a thin coat to his mouth, relishing the spread of it as he pressed his lips together, and smiled.

The third time Sherlock used his heat pack in as many days John looked up from his laptop with a sigh. 

“If it was that bad, why didn’t you say something?”

Sherlock, ostensibly engrossed in an experiment testing the absorption rate of lung tissue with various liquids, didn’t respond. Despite hearing each of John’s footsteps as he walked over, he still startled when John, instead of calling out to get his attention, removed the heat pack and replaced it with his hands instead.

“Sit up straight,” he chided. “It won’t help if you’re slouching.”

It was on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue to pull away and reproach John for invalidating his test results, part of his concentration still on the soaking lung tissue, but he hadn’t actually. In fact, he was currently going above and beyond in confirming the first part of Sherlock’s hypothesis for the other experiment he was conducting, one that didn’t involve lungs.

It had taken John only three days to notice that Sherlock was apparently having trouble with his neck—less if Sherlock included the pinched look John had worn the previous day for an hour or so after Sherlock put the heat pack away.

Two days was an extremely fast observational time, especially for John who never seemed to notice when Sherlock followed him and still routinely overlooked some of the most obvious clues at crime scenes. Of course, even John couldn’t fail to miss the bright yellow heat pack Sherlock had been wearing about their flat, and it didn’t take a doctor of John’s skills to deduce why Sherlock might need it. But John’s immediate reaction on discovering Sherlock’s health complaint was to offer a better solution.

John was as skilled with Sherlock’s neck as he was with his back, and Sherlock couldn’t help melting into his touch despite the petri dishes in need of his attention.

His eyes snapped open only seconds after they’d closed. A cost-benefit analysis between his experiment and John’s “three continents” masseuse hands, and his experiment had come out the loser. That was the second part of his hypothesis proven.

John’s hands moved from the base of his neck up into his hair, then slid forward to gently rub at his temples. Sherlock let his eyes fall closed, utterly uncaring that he’d have to redo his experiment.

The pop of the cap coming off the tube of lip balm was loud in the quiet of Lestrade’s closed office. Lestrade looked up in tired confusion as Sherlock applied the balm and secreted the tube back inside his coat pocket, never taking his eyes from the blown-up photographs spread across the DI’s desk.

Barely a minute later John pushed his way into the office backwards, both of his hands occupied with cheap paper cups of what the Met considered tea. He set one down on Lestrade’s desk and wrapped his hands around the other as he turned towards Sherlock. Automatically, his eyes dipped from Sherlock’s face to his lips, just as they had the past fourteen times Sherlock had repeated the experiment under similar conditions.

John always identified usage within seconds of encountering Sherlock, up to an average of 34.62 minutes after prior application. Despite that the balm was barely noticeable even with ideal lighting conditions, six of those previous times had been under harsh fluorescent lighting similar to that at New Scotland Yard.

As with each of the previous fourteen times, John’s mouth quirked into a brief smile, his tongue darted out over his lips, and then he took a sip of his tea and glanced down at the photos as if nothing had happened. He hadn’t licked his lips that very first time on giving Sherlock the balm, but it had become a standard feature of his behavior since.

Sherlock felt a familiar thrill in his stomach and the buzz of satisfaction at being able to get John, exhausted though he was, to smile, and resisted the urge to grin himself. Pleased with yet another confirmation of his hypothesis, Sherlock looked up ready to give the answer he’d deduced while waiting for John to return, and found Lestrade glancing between them with narrow-eyed suspicion. That was unacceptable. He didn’t need Gareth saying something to John and mucking up Sherlock’s experiment before he’d finished.

“It was the building manager, of course.” Instantly all attention in the room turned to him. “But he’s being blackmailed by the owner to conduct the arson as a ransom scheme. There’s something in these properties he doesn’t want found and he needed a fall man to take the suspicion away from himself. He’s been nervous about this from the start, and rightly so, but his desire to move to St. Croix has nothing to do with the stress of the situation and everything to do with wanting to get out of the country to enjoy his illicit millions.

“Arrest the building manager, and there won’t be a fire tomorrow. It’s a simple as that. Also, you’ll want to question the arson investigator in charge of this case. He’s being paid off to do less than adequate work.”

It took several seconds for Lestrade to respond, too busy scribbling everything Sherlock had just said across a notepad.

“What’s he got on the building manager then?”

“He’s been stealing from the tenants to fuel his drug addiction, obviously.”

“Brilliant,” John said, his exhaustion banished with the force of his smile.

Sherlock beamed in return and couldn’t help the way his eyes traced the expression on John’s lips. He looked up, about to tell Lestrade that they’d come back to finish his tiresome paperwork once John was properly rested, and found the DI staring at him, handset halfway to his ear and one hand on the dial pad, both eyebrows up at his hairline.

He caught Sherlock’s eye and winked.

“Sherlock,” John called from the kitchen doorway, “we’re almost out of honey. Should I order more, or do you want a different kind? Or,” his voice became hesitant and Sherlock looked up from checking his email, “I don’t have to if you’re tired of it. You like cane sugar. Should I get that instead?”

“Order more.”

“What?”

“Order more, John. I prefer it now, actually, enough that it’s become inconvenient to have tea outside Baker Street. The taste of commercial-grade honey isn’t near as good.”

Any insecurity in John instantly disappeared and he was as proud as if Sherlock had just accepted the gift all over again. 

“That’s good because it’s much better for you.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned the potential allergy benefits,” Sherlock agreed indulgently. 

“Not just that, but it’s harder for your body to break down, so there are fewer calories. It’s not processed, there are no preservatives, and—”

Sherlock let John’s cheerful babbling wash over him as he opened a spreadsheet on his computer and marked the favorable results in the relevant cells. John had noticed the depreciation in the jar with almost exactly one-fourth of the honey still remaining, which at the rate of their consumption was more than John’s professed “almost out,” but would allow plenty of time to order a new supply before the old was used up.

Maybe he could transfer the honey he’d removed from the jar into a portable container. The tiny to-go packets generally on offer were too cloyingly sweet after the rich flavor of John’s local honey.

“You’re wrong,” he said as John rubbed antibiotic ointment into his scraped knuckles.

“Or, at least, you’re not entirely correct, which amounts to the same thing.”

“What?”

John finished with the ointment and began unwrapping one of his honeybee plasters.

“The bees, John!”

Sherlock waved his bee-adorned hand in John’s face and frowned when he only rolled his eyes and reclaimed Sherlock’s hand. 

“Hold still, you berk. I’m not done yet.”

“But, John—”

“Yes, bees, ok. How am I wrong about bees?”

“Several times now you’ve expressed a belief that my interest in bees made me accept your gifts, that it makes me more cooperative in accepting treatment. But you’re wrong—”

“Oh, Christ,” John interrupted, “are you really still on about the bees? Let’s talk about your lack of self-preservation instincts instead, specifically your willingness to engage a bloke with a great big knife in a fistfight.”

“—it’s you.”

John paused in what was shaping up to become a massive lecture, which was a relief for Sherlock.

“What?”

“I don’t use any of these things because of some tenuous connection to bees, John. I use them because you gave them to me, and I like knowing that you notice me.”

“Well, I… Of course I notice you, Sherlock. It’s rather hard not to, most of the time.”

“You don’t, John,” Sherlock refuted bluntly. “The last time I followed you on your lunch break you called me to ask if we needed milk and didn’t notice that I answered from the other side of the cafe.”

John blinked in astonishment, mouth hanging open.

“That was last week, Sherlock! And you told me we did even though when I came home there wasn’t any!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Well how was I supposed to know? I wasn’t at home.”

John made a noise highly reminiscent of a whistling teakettle.

“My point,” Sherlock spoke before his flatmate could begin boiling over, “is that for nearly anything else your observational skills leave much to be desired—” He ignored John’s sputtering denial. “But when it comes to my health you become frightfully observant, and I find that I… don’t mind.”

Again he waved the bee-plastered hand to illustrate his point.

“I use these things because you notice me when I do, and I like that.”

John had lost all of his steam while Sherlock was talking and now sat staring in surprise.

“I don’t— What exactly do you mean, Sherlock?”

“Like I said: It’s you. You think a superficial connection with bees capable of influencing my behavior, but you’re wrong. The one influencing my behavior, encouraging me to be more cooperative, is you.”

“Now, hang on,” John protested, “everything I’ve given you is something you can use easily enough on your own. That has nothing to do with me.”

“True. But consider that the efficacy of any object is based first of all on its availability. I wouldn’t think to buy any of what you’ve given me for myself. The only reason they have the chance to work is because you gave them to me.”

“So, let me get this straight. You’re saying that you,” John paused to wet his lips, “you’ve been using my gifts because I like it when you do?”

Sherlock beamed, pleased with John for having finally caught on.

“Exactly. My hypothesis was two-fold. First, that you notice fluctuations in my health much more quickly than even concerns of a more practical nature, such as when you’re about to run out of pants.” He ignored another sputtered exclamation from John. “And second, that my own reaction to your attention is skewed in your favor.”

John snorted.

“I’m not sure how you tested that, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you did. If you like it when I take care of you, why do you make such a fuss about it?”

“There’s nothing about the process I like, but I tolerate it because of you." 

“Fine with me. Getting you to sit still for at least this much is an achievement. I guess I’ll just have to work on how much of a tosser you are then.”

He picked up Sherlock’s other hand and began covering those cuts as well.

“John,” Sherlock flexed his hand and watched the cheerful honeybees ripple with the movement, “with that said I have… a request, if you will.” 

John glanced at him, surprised and a little excited.

“You actually… you want me to do something for your health? You, Sherlock ‘What do you mean it’s broken, I’ve been walking on it for a week just fine” Holmes?

“Ok, let’s hear it. Only I’m warning you right now I won’t let you turn our flat into a miniature surgery. There are some things I’m just not qualified to do.”

Sherlock licked his lips, suddenly nervous. As he normally did, John had accepted his conclusions easily enough, taking the results of Sherlock’s experiments for granted even though he hadn’t been detailed on the experiment parameters or the controls. But telling John something was one thing, and asking him was another. Usually Sherlock ordered, firm in his knowledge of what John would and wouldn’t do on command. He didn’t often make requests unsure of John’s response.

He held out both hands palm down in John’s direction so the ludicrous children’s plasters spread over his torn knuckles were impossible to miss. 

“I want you to kiss them.”

“Wha—”

John gaped, his lips silently forming Sherlock’s words as if sounding out a foreign language instead of plain English.

“You what?”

“It’s a colloquial expression, isn’t it? Kissing something to make it better.”

“But, Sherlock, that doesn’t actually—” John attempted to force a laugh. The sound became trapped in his throat. “You of all people should know how unhygienic that is.” 

“I’m not asking you to kiss a weeping abscess, John. They’re already covered. Just a kiss over top will do.”

“So you really want me to…?” Suddenly unable to look Sherlock in the eye, John gestured at his still outstretched hands, but made no move to take them.

“I thought this would be a simple request considering your interest in alternative remedies where I’m concerned.”

“Yeah, but this isn’t exactly a remedy, is it? This is more something mums do for their kids before they’re old enough to know better.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. Now they were both staring at his hands. This entire scenario had worked out with far less protest from John in his head.

“Mummy used to, when I was a child. I quite liked it until Mycroft—” He cut off abruptly, licked his lips, and continued. “I used to find it very effective, and I think it will work, if it’s you.”

When John didn’t reply he curled up his hands and pulled them back, feeling stung in a way that had nothing to do with his abraded knuckles. 

“Not good?”

“No,” John said, and Sherlock nodded without looking at him.

“Noted. I’m sorry, John, I won’t—” 

He startled when John picked up both of his hands and held them in his own.

“No, I mean, this is something you want?” John stared at him, eyes searching Sherlock’s face. “You think it’ll help?”

“I—Yes, John, I do. But you don’t have to—”

John smiled, small and bashful, and ducked his head over Sherlock’s hand to kiss the first of the plaster honeybees. The press of his lips was quick, hardly lingering before he moved on to the next plaster, but the warmth of the contact spread across Sherlock’s knuckles until his entire hand was tingling. John lifted his other hand to his lips and repeated the process until it too was flushed with heat. 

“Better?”

John’s voice was hoarse. There was a tinge of pink across his cheeks and at the tips of his ears. Sherlock suddenly couldn’t breathe.

Very slowly, he shook his head.

The strangely intent look in John’s eyes turned instantly into worry.

“What’s wrong?”

Hardly daring to move, Sherlock tilted his head up in a wordless demand. John’s flush grew deeper, but he didn’t release Sherlock’s hands which he was still holding. Glancing from  Sherlock’s eyes to his lips, he swallowed.

“What is it? You can’t breathe?”

Sherlock was mid-nod when John leaned over and kissed him.

The kiss lasted barely longer than the ones John had pressed to his knuckles, and John pulled away far too soon to fix whatever was now wrong with Sherlock.

John chuckled, hands reflexively squeezing Sherlock’s, and licked his lips.

“You taste like peppermint.”

Bonus: One time Sherlock offered something for John’s health without being asked.

“Sherlock! Come back here, your cheek needs seeing to!”

Sherlock burst through the door, pausing barely long enough to fling his coat and scarf at the sofa before bounding into the kitchen. Gleefully, he collected the item he’d prepared from the freezer and one of their ragged hand towels before running back into the sitting room where John was still in the process of removing his coat.

“So do your bruised ribs, John.”

He thrust his burden into John’s hands and yanked John’s jumper up. John jumped, but didn’t try to stop Sherlock from pressing a gentle kiss to his already-purpling skin.

“You had this already prepared. Don’t tell me you knew this was going to—”

His voice cut off when he actually looked at what he was holding. Sherlock catalogued the pattern for a moment longer before standing and patting John’s jumper back into place.

“I thought there was a strong likelihood we might need them, and prepared accordingly.”

John wasn’t paying any attention, he was staring at the cold pack he’d just unwrapped.

“Is that… an anthropomorphized cup of tea drinking from another smaller, frowning, anthropomorphized cup of tea?”

“You told me anatomically correct human fabric was ‘morbid,’ and I extrapolated that anything decorated with guns would be as well, so tea it is. You’re nearly as obsessed with it as you are with bees.”

John gave a surprised laugh and pressed the cold pack over his side.

“Speaking of bees,” his eyes were full of mirth in the way Sherlock liked best, “where’s yours?” 

“Freezer,” he said, and went to go get the medical kit.

He returned with kit in hand to find John standing in front of the open freezer staring. 

“Sherlock… How many barley packs did you buy? Where’s all the food that used to be in here?”

“Binned it. No point keeping frozen veg when we have these.”

He plucked a smaller, bee-patterned cold pack from the freezer and shut the door. John opened it again.

“Frozen vegetables are food, Sherlock. They’re not just convenient cold packs, they can be eaten. The only thing in here is barley packs and—” He squinted at several tupperware containers before slamming the door. “And things that really shouldn’t be eaten. What happened to that stew Mrs. Hudson gave us? I was saving that—”

Sherlock kissed him.

“Sherlock,” John sighed when he could breathe again. “You can’t make everything better with kisses.” The way his entire body was still angled in Sherlock’s direction belayed his words.

Sherlock kissed him again. 

“Fine,” John said eventually and let go of Sherlock’s shirt. “You win this time, you mad wanker. Now let me look at your cheek.”

Obligingly, Sherlock dropped into a kitchen chair and presented his cheek for John’s inspection.

“A few centimeters higher and you would’ve had one hell of a shiner. As it is, this is a very spectacular bruise.” He ran a thumb over the mark, probing carefully at the bone beneath. “Ice it no more than twenty minutes every hour, and take a couple paracetamol for the pain.”

Taking Sherlock’s chin in hand, he leaned down and kissed the bruise. When he drew back his cheeks had gone slightly pink. Sherlock smiled at him, utterly charmed.

“It feels better already.”