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The coffee beans had been roasting for quite some time now. The sky was pale blue outside, remnants of sleep still lingering in the clouds. The sun would soon be coming up, and with it, William. The flat was silent, you could only hear the sound of the beans being moved around in the pan.
Sherlock turned off the stove, transferred the coffee beans to the grinder, and slowly turned the handle, watching absentmindedly as the browned pebbles turned to powder. The kettle warned Sherlock from the stovetop, and a quick look outside told him William would be getting up soon.
He poured the warm water on the powder, and watched as rich dark liquid came out on the other side. The sun had barely tinted the blue with its flame when his flatmate walked into the kitchen still in his sleeping clothes. Sherlock opened the cupboard and took out a cup, putting it on the table and pouring the brewed concoction into it.
"Thank you," William always thanked him before taking a sip.
Sherlock poured himself a cup before sitting down across from him. He wasn't the biggest fan of the beverage, but he thought it would look weird if he just sat at the table with nothing in front of him. Though, it was probably weirder that he never finished his coffee.
He watched with satisfaction as William drank. The blonde man, as sleepy as he was in the morning, always looked elated at the freshly brewed present. He would take long sips, holding the liquid in his mouth momentarily so his taste buds could delight in the rich flavours before swallowing. William drank coffee like he did pretty much everything, with grace and purpose.
Sherlock took his first and final sip, cringing a little at how bitter it tasted. He could add sugar, but he didn't want William to think he was a wuss. Not that the professor would ever think that. But he had become strangely self-conscious around the other.
Sherlock felt as if he was a teenager again. Or what he assumed normal teenagers felt like. He had experienced boyhood very differently from his peers. Sherlock had never been self-conscious in his life. His skin felt tight around his frame, like it sat awkwardly on his growing bones. It made him extra aware of his own movements, like he was just now learning how to be. Maybe he had actually been reborn.
The pitch-black liquid in Sherlock's cup had gone cold. William's cup now sat empty in the sink. He had gotten up to get dressed while Sherlock stared off into space.
Their mornings together were quiet. They barely spoke, mouths preoccupied with their cups (at least one of them). Only after getting ready for the day did William address him, almost like he needed armour to truly face Sherlock. And Sherlock understood, he didn't want to force William to be vulnerable, not after everything he had been through. Sherlock had seen it all, and now William was a little apprehensive, even if only unconsciously.
"I'm going out, Sherly."
William was putting his coat on by the entrance, his back to him.
"Do you want me to come with you?"
He always offered.
"I'm fine by myself. It's just a short walk around the neighbourhood."
William always said no.
He left, and Sherlock finally drained his unfinished coffee in the sink. He held onto the counter, squeezing his grievances into the marble. Frustration coursed through his bulging veins. There was nothing Sherlock could do for William besides make coffee. Nothing but empty words and a full cup.
Maybe the crippling self-doubt was another side effect of his second puberty. Sherlock knew it wasn't that, he was just a useless partner. He could clean and bandage William's wounds, help him walk when he couldn't, and hold him when he had nightmares, but that was all surface level stuff. Did any of it really matter?
He stopped abusing the counter and started on the dishes, soaping up everything he had used to make the useless coffee. Mindless work was the best for moments like these. It was simple - a set of clear steps to achieve an end goal. He didn't even need to think. Rinse the dishes, scrub them clean, rinse them again, put them out to dry.
Sherlock was used to putting pieces together without much effort, he knew the outcome before the process even started. Maybe he had grown complacent, which was why he didn't see the hurdle that was the Lord of Crime coming. That stone in his path had made him trip, and fall down a hole deeper than expected. He was still trying to climb out, and because of it he knew nothing. All he could do was hold on to what he did know, in order to remain sane. And what he knew was worthless - it was homemade coffee.
The detective scrubbed the pan harshly, taking it out on the least fragile thing in the sink. After he was done, Sherlock rinsed everything, set it out to dry, and cleaned his hands. They didn't have any work scheduled that day, so Sherlock guessed he would tidy up the flat to avoid spiralling. During times like these he missed his chemicals.
He was in the middle of aggressively sweeping the floors when the front door opened. He dropped his broom, like he had been caught doing something he shouldn't, and William startled.
"Spring cleaning, Sherly?"
He looked amused as he closed the door behind him. William was holding a paper bag. Clearly his morning walk had turned into a trip to the grocers.
"Was just feeling a little bored, you know how it is."
Sherlock put the broom away, almost ashamed of himself.
"What you got there, Liam?"
He moved closer to his flatmate, a schoolboy's apprehension in his step.
William set the bag on the dining table, and pulled out a packet of what seemed to be roasted coffee beans.
He smiled sheepishly and pushed it towards Sherlock.
"This way, you can stay in bed longer. I know you roast them yourself, it must take a lot of time."
Sherlock stilled, eyes locked on the household's latest purchase.
"I know I don't always say it, but I'm thankful for everything you do for me, Sherly. Even the coffee. It's wonderful, thank you."
Sherlock only noticed the tears when they touched his lips and salted his tongue. William's eyes widened, and he ran to gather the other man in his arms. The detective hiccuped, wiping his eyes so harshly it hurt his skin. He really didn't know anything. And sometimes, that was a good thing.