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“Oho, there he is,” John calls out, leaning his head against the back of the sofa to look down the hall. “The master detective lives, does he?”
A very tired Sherlock Holmes is heading toward the kitchen, still looking decently exhausted. “Yes, I would most certainly hope so,” he says.
John chuckles and raises a brow. “Yeah, well, last time I checked on you, you seemed pretty dead to the world, mate.” He raises his head again to look down at his phone, the upside-down perspective of the kitchen having started to strain his eyes. “You sure you're not sick?”
“I would know,” Sherlock tells him. He pulls down a mug for his tea. John sort of hums in reply, and goes back to enjoying the sunlight streaming through the window in the lounge.
Sherlock stands and waits on the kettle, and stands a little more while his tea steeps. He's tired, but in the way that a good case leaves him satisfied. His mind is stretched like a cat in the sun (not unlike John now, actually), his inherent need for mystery and intrigue satiated, if only for a short time.
Though, maybe he is a little socially worn out. He put up with a cult before the sun was even up, slept for a few hours upon return to the flat, and then had to get back up to sit through John's gift exchange with his mother.
Not terrible, but there's only so much charm he can turn on while he’s sleep deprived. Polite smiles had started to make the muscles in his face twitch.
(First impressions are ever so important.)
(...When it comes to John, at least.)
(John is important.)
“So…” John starts again.
“Mhm?”
“You've met my mum.”
Sherlock's brows furrow minutely. He pulls his teabag from his mug and stirs in some honey. “Indeed.”
“Am I, you know…” There’s a long pause as John looks for the proper words to ask what he needs to. “Is there a chance that I’m ever going to, you know, meet someone from your side of things?”
“From my side of things,” Sherlock quotes.
“Yeah, like, from your family.”
Sherlock elects not to answer. Likely for the best. It’s not really John’s business, anyway. Why would it be? Besides, meeting someone on his side isn’t at all conducive to their business relationship, nor would the interaction be important to their actual business whatsoever.
To their friendship, maybe.
Sherlock’s gaze is stuck to the back of John’s head.
Oh well.
“Being cagey?” John asks. Upon being met with more silence, he backs off. “No, yeah, that was pushing it a little, I’ll admit.”
“I think it’s a perfectly reasonable expectation,” Sherlock says. “It’s just one that I’m not going to humor.”
John mulls it over. “Can I ask why?”
“I just don’t feel like it.”
“Yeah– alright, that’s fair.”
Sherlock joins him on the sofa, warm mug of chamomile in hand.
He often finds himself rather thankful that things worked out the way they did.
It's a soft sort of peace that he shares with John. He rather likes the conversation, yes, but they often don't need to speak at all. They don't need to share or make small talk, as much as John might enjoy that in itself.
The two of them are very comfortable.
Beginning-partnership awkwardness aside, something about existing side by side with one another brings each of them comfort.
For John, perhaps it's a sense of relief. Relief that things have worked out well, relief that the podcast has listeners, relief that the business is kicking off.
For Sherlock… He's happy someone stayed. He feels like a puzzle piece clicked into place now, even through the swirling of his own mind. Working relationship be (briefly) damned, John Watson is a tether back to himself. Someone steady, consistent.
Eventually, he takes the last sip of his tea and leans forward, reaching clear across John to try and reach the side table.
“Sherlock, what–” John starts to laugh, leaning away from his arm. “What are you doing?”
Sherlock leans heavily against John to keep himself from falling off the sofa. “Putting my mug on the table,” he replies, with some struggle.
“Why don’t you just get up and do it, instead of having to lay on me to reach?” John asks, still laughing out of sheer bewilderment.
Sherlock sets his empty mug down on one of the coasters on the side table, and pulls himself back up. “Oh, why, does it bother you? Would it bother you if I did this?” He moves John’s arm and faux-indignantly lays down across his lap with his head against the armrest, his arms crossed over his chest.
John groans in protest. “Oh, you’re worse than Archie!”
“Am I, now?” Sherlock can’t help but begin to laugh as well.
“You just do this because you want to be a bother,” John says. “At least Archie does it because he loves me.”
“I think he just does this if he wants whatever it is that you’re eating.”
“Come on, that’s not true,” John rolls his eyes.
“I’ve observed it myself,” Sherlock insists, and he’s only partially fibbing.
“He’s just a big cuddler, that’s why,” John retorts. When Sherlock shrugs, as if to say, whatever makes you feel better, John sighs at him. “Well, it’s not going to be my problem if I drop my phone on your face by accident.”
“It will be your problem,” Sherlock states. “You’re the one holding the phone.”
“You’re the one laying across my lap,” John says. “You’re the one in the way.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes so hard he almost gives himself a headache. “You have a PopSocket. Surely it’s not that much of a risk.”
“You never know,” John replies. He resumes scrolling through whatever social media page he happened to be looking at before Sherlock rudely interrupted him. He doesn’t even make Sherlock get up. Surely he must not mind it as much as he says he does.
Sherlock is forced to remain laying there when John elects to use his chest to rest his hand on, holding his phone up. The volume is on the lowest setting, but Sherlock can just barely make out whatever it is that John's watching. Something on Instagram, probably.
He eases his head back to properly rest against the armrest, and bends his knees just to take some of the pressure off his hips from the way he's tilted.
Despite the background noise, Sherlock is rather tempted to doze off again. The sunlight hits his face just right, he's comfortable enough, John is quite warm… Things start to grow pleasantly hazy.
That is, until a thought passes him by.
“It really is fascinating, you know,” Sherlock begins, voice coming out low and much drowsier than he anticipated.
John pauses the video on his phone and looks at Sherlock. “Sorry, what is?”
“To see how other people see you,” Sherlock says. “There will always be so many other people part of your life, and so many people have such a different interpretation of who you are.”
“This is… Because you met Carol?” John assumes.
“Yes,” Sherlock replies. “Up until now, I haven't met anyone else who knows you. Mrs. Hudson and I are technically getting to know you together.”
“Stammo,” John adds, trying to mentally press past the fact that this ridiculous man deemed him worth knowing.
“Stamford doesn't count, I know him already. Though, I can see you from his eyes just as well.” Sherlock makes a little flourish with a hand. “University pals, learning side-by-side, getting into all sorts of trouble as young men often do when allotted independence.”
“Are you saying we're not still young men?” John smiles down at him.
Sherlock shoots him a look. “I simply figure you're not violently hungover quite as often anymore.”
“Ah–” John pauses. Then, he shuts his mouth. “Good point.”
Sherlock carries on. “But to meet someone who shaped your deepest mannerisms and, in many cases, inhibitions– someone who shaped the role of a person for you to grow into and watched you become that and more… It makes you easier to understand.” Sherlock settles down a little further in John's lap, shifting a bit. “Your mother has known you from the very beginning. She knows who you were on a much further scale than Stamford.”
“Who I was?” John asks, voice quieter.
“She’ll always have the impression of who you used to be, up to a certain point,” Sherlock explains.
“Yeah, yup– Alright, this just got really deep and I don't think I have the brainpower to deal with you psychoanalyzing the people in my life,” John stops him.
Sherlock half-laughs, half-scoffs. “Is this a point I'm not allowed to make?” He asks. “It is crucial that I explore the identity of someone as I get to know them, through personal interactions, relations to other people, even the way they look–”
“Yeah, you're not gonna find much for that last one, mate.”
“Watson, please,” Sherlock sighs.
“I am the most average looking bloke–”
“By now you should know that I'm going to find something to notice in almost everyone,” Sherlock retorts. “I make observations on appearance not just for the sake of deductions during regular encounters, but also to commit to memory the physical, visible identity of someone close to me.”
John inhales. “For Christ's– When we first met, you–” He lets his breath out in a huff, then starts again. “Okay, you must've done all of that later, because you just about deduced everything about me the first day we met.”
Sherlock throws his hands up. “Everyone can tell you've been in the military–”
“No, they can't–”
“Yes they can, look at the way you stand,” Sherlock remarks. “Besides, I still noticed plenty–”
“Oh, aside from the limp, the military and medical background, my date not arriving,” John lists, positively sure that Sherlock is just taking the piss at this point.
“Your freckles,” Sherlock overlaps.
John stops dead and splutters. “What?”
Sherlock stares at him. “Your freckles,” he enunciates, articulating slower this time.
John stares at him. His defense weakens, as do his knees.
Sherlock continues to stare. “On your cheeks,” he says. “And your nose.”
And your shoulders.
And your back.
John remains paralyzed for only a second more. He awkwardly shifts beneath Sherlock. “Right, yeah,” he laughs, “and here I was, thinking you picked up on the important stuff.”
“It is important,” Sherlock persists. “Again, identity. I'm looking at your face half the time anyway; we live together.”
“I've never had anyone say anything before,” John says.
“I'm saying something now, as pointless as the observation may seem to you or anyone else,” Sherlock doubles down. “I'd know you by the pattern. Sparse along the cheekbones, a few on the bridge of your nose, all connecting like constellations if you were to draw the lines between them.”
Their eyes meet.
"Pointless, I suppose, for deductions," Sherlock excuses. "At the very most, it tells me that you burn easily, but anyone could've figured that out."
John looks…
John looks. It's an expression Sherlock hasn't seen before… But admittedly, he hasn't seen many. Not from John. Not yet.
This one's different. Sherlock isn't clueless, but for a little while longer, he feels like it.
“You'd know me by the pattern,” John softly repeats.
Sherlock stares back at him. Before he can make a face, his eyes flutter closed as John runs a hand through his hair, gently trailing his nails against his scalp.
It's an agreed touch. As long as it's deliberate with consistent pressure and less of an annoying fidget, Sherlock doesn't mind John's hands in his hair.
“You will never cease to amaze me,” John says. “And yet you're still so ridiculous.”
Sherlock sighs, and it comes out rather fond. “Yes, Watson, you've said.”