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It’s a Thursday, half-four in the afternoon and Sherlock cannot be arsed to move.
For quite a time there’s nothing but the merry bubbling of stock on the stove top and the methodical sounds of the butt of a knife meeting cutting board through the heft of various vegetables. Celery into the pot first, Sherlock can tell from the crisp slice of the stainless steel through the rib; the way the pieces hit the liquid, the pitter-patter is distinctive. The duration from whole onion to chopped takes longer and from the delicate little sniffles John makes Sherlock can tell when he’s worked through half the bulb.
Sherlock considers bringing him a tissue but decides against it, he’s simply too lethargic by the fire.
Sherlock’s eyes slip closed as he imagines John sectioning the half against the grain, then chopping the divisions up so they’re uniform in shape. He’ll scoop the whole of it onto the blade and press the outside of his palm flat against the edge as he pushes the onion into the pot.
He hears the vegetables plop in with a little splish splash - not much, John is careful in his technique when he’s cooking - and the dull scrape of a wooden spoon against the sides of the deep pot; Sherlock peels his eyes open just in time to catch John’s smile as he pulls back from the pot, tasting the stock after blowing against the spoon.
The television hums quietly as John prepares the mirepoix for the stew he is attempting and Sherlock watches what little he can see from his obstructed view for a bit before turning his gaze back to the flames. The man can’t be arsed to move after two weeks searching the London underbelly for child traffickers. There had been quite a bit more rushing about and dodging henchmen and jumping from rooftop to rooftop than usual. (Honestly even he wonders from time to time how he and John lead such an utterly fantastic life.)
The scent of the flavors combining reach his nose and it riles up his stomach, reminding him just how long it’s been since he’s eaten properly. He’s rather excited about the stew; everything John creates in the kitchen is ultimately delicious. The man has a way around food that Sherlock had not expected; he often finds himself trying not to outwardly sing the praises of the food.
God forbid the man try to feed him up even further, regardless of how succulent the dishes always taste.
His lids flutter shut as he takes a deep breath in, holding the scent in his lungs as he listens to the subtle noises of John moving about with purpose. Sherlock finds it both utterly domestic and calming. He could listen to him cook to a wonderful end, it could lull him to a very pleasant slumber if Sherlock would allow it. Peeling his eyes back open he shimmies himself a bit straighter in the chair; he can now see John’s torso.
He no longer appears to be a disembodied head floating about in the other room.
John pauses as he lays out the carrots to pour a bit more salt into the stock, stirring it with a soft smile; Sherlock finds himself smiling as well - just because - and quells the urge for it to turn into a grin. He wipes all vestiges of it from his face. It wouldn’t do well to have John catching him watching for a number of reasons.
The detective goes back to picking at the edges of the armchair, his legs flung across the great distance to rest atop John’s chair. The doctor pauses in crossing the room to glance in at his flatmate. “You are,” John says fondly from the kitchen, “Simply too tall.”
“Envy does not wear well on you, John,” Sherlock responds lazily but something warm and delightful curls in his stomach at the words. Not a compliment, but very nearly and his ego will eagerly take whatever it is presented with, and happily.
The warmth of the hearth and the over-exertion his bones have undergone the past days leave him heavy and sleepy in the chair. Though his mind attempts to bat it off, a thin veneer of sleep wraps him up and he’s quite comfortable slung across the chair, listening to the shift of each piece of fabric John is wearing, the scrape of his slippers on the linoleum floor.
And just as easily, he’s torn from his gentle comfort.
“Bloody hell!” John hisses and Sherlock hears the knife clatter to the board even as he springs up from the chair, hopping over a pile of old newspapers to skitter quite gracelessly into the kitchen. The scene he witnesses causes him to reel in a way that confuses him, his limbs seizing up in shock.
It’s nothing much, not really anything at all. John’s managed to slice his left index finger open; it’s a small gash, perhaps no more than eight millimeters in length but it spans the pad of his fingertip. Blood wells to the surface and slips down to his palm, winds its way around his wrist before gravity takes hold and pulls it down to splatter against the light wood grain of the bamboo board.
It’s just a nick, just a tiny little wound but Sherlock finds that his heart is in his throat, that he’s immobilized for the sight of John’s blood, of the man in pain. There is a stunned moment as Sherlock works to process this information; he’s seen John in various states of pain, of far worse danger. He’s in no immediate duress at the moment, in the kitchen of their flat having cut himself with a knife; it’s just a small knife wound.
He’s seen John worse for the wear this past week. A length of pipe to his stomach followed by some light blunt force trauma (which John had returned to the assailant rather neatly before losing his lunch all over the pavement.)
Yet Sherlock’s stomach twists and turns as John sucks a hissed breath through his teeth and requests a towel once, twice, the third time a bit louder, eyes wider. “Towel. Sherlock. Please!” His limbs catch up with the words and find kinetic energy, reach across to the stove to retrieve a small dish towel and presses it into John’s hand.
But just as he does so he snatches it back, “Ah, dirty, let me just-”
John takes the opportunity to grab it back and secures it around the cut. “It’s fine, I’m sure I won’t perish from gangrene.” His smile is tight, but there’s a levity in his gaze.
“Are you alright?” Sherlock asks him thickly, fights the suddenly wild urge to scoop him up and into the bathroom, attempt to stitch his finger back together. What an absurd though, and to attempt that on a doctor. And yet he crowds into John, tipping his chin in order to get a better view of the wound, snatches at his wrist.
“Sherlock, what the hell?”
Bending down, the towel is peeled back to reveal another welling of blood; Sherlock presses the cloth back with a grimace and holds it there hard. “I prefer not seeing you injured,” he says and it is fully intended in a bit of jest but his voice is soft, reverent, sad.
John swallows, Sherlock can hear it, just by his ear. “This erm, I should probably stitch this,” his voice is equally as soft as he tugs on his hand a bit.
But Sherlock is too fast for him, straightening and crowding around back of him, walking John down the hall into the bathroom. Yes, the urge to scoop him up is very nearly overwhelming now, fancy that. Or perhaps gather him to his chest, just gather him right up.
That would make the stitching monumentally more difficult but he’d feel much better about the entire situation, he’s sure.
The light is flicked on and Sherlock kindly shoves John to sit on the loo and the man complies surprisingly easily with a grunt and a roll of his eyes. There’s quiet as Sherlock gathers up all of the supplies, laying them out on the brim of the sink. “What in the world are you doing?” John’s voice is still so low, though at the moment it holds a note of wonder and amusement.
“Fixing you,” Sherlock replies without thinking, fingers intent on peeling the plastic back from the small suture kit.
“It’s not,” John breathes, late afternoon sun peeking through the high window to touch his hair. “Sherlock, it’s fine, I can...”
“I know you can manage,” Sherlock says quickly as he prepares a bit of lidocaine. “I’d just as soon...” Their gazes meet and John gives a little nod and Sherlock administers the anesthetic.
Sherlock hunkers down on knees against the tile, the tip of his tongue peeking out of the left corner of his mouth as he passes the needle carefully through the delicate skin. John keeps his bottom lip securely between his teeth just as he keeps his gaze on the detective’s face as he makes quick, efficient and yet startlingly careful work of stitching him back up.
“You’re good at this,” John mentions, his uninjured hand scratching at his knee.
Sherlock grunts and glances up, “Comes in handy, knowing how to stitch oneself up.” The side of his mouth jumps in a smile before he returns his attention to the task at hand.
They’re quiet for a time as Sherlock passes the last few stitches through John’s skin; he’s very gentle, very methodical. “I had thoughts of just, just carrying you in here,” he says unbidden as thread follows needle and doesn’t have the foggiest idea why he’s said what he’s said. He doesn’t know why he says this at all. But still his voice is measured and nearly inaudible, as though his words don’t warrant a second thought, and perhaps they don’t; they’re just... the truth. “Secure you to my back and just fix you up.”
A chuckle shakes out of John, “That so? Like a damsel in distress. Holding me down and stitching me up? I understand getting blood in the food would make me upset but I suppose I hadn’t thought you-”
“I prefer not seeing you injured,” he says finally, again, using the scissors to cut off from the last clean stitch.
John presses his thumb carefully against the pad of his finger. “Oh.”
Sherlock turns and places the scissors back on the brim of the sink and in an instant presses up and finds John’s mouth with his own. It surprises even himself, but he settles into it, takes a moment to catalogue the texture of John’s mouth, the taste of the surprised breath he huffs out and just as John might be rounding into the kiss, Sherlock tears away.
A breath is quickly heaved into his lungs and Sherlock stands abruptly, taking a step back from John. “How much longer does that have to cook?” He shoves everything back into the medicine cabinet unceremoniously; metal scrapes against metal. Bottles tip over and clink chaotically together.
John looks down at his shoes, “I, uhm, an... hour? I’m not through with some of the-”
“Right!” Sherlock exclaims. “Good, good, I-”
John slides his uninjured hand around the back of his neck to scratch; the tips of his ears are a delightful shade of pink. “And all of that is moot, you know, you couldn’t lift me if you tried,” he brings his finger to his mouth and presses his lips to the stitches.
Something on the stove gives a little pop and a gurgle and they both start at the sound before it evens out. Sherlock focuses his attention on John, still seated on the toilet. “John,” he says witheringly, as though the man doesn’t stand a chance.
A shy grin peaks his lips. “I’m simply saying that I’m rather stout and army trained and-”
“Oh alright,” and Sherlock is suddenly grinning with a blush high on his cheeks, devilish glint in his eyes as bends and slides his arms beneath John’s thighs and heaves him into his arms. Just like that, so simple.
John starts, the air rushing from his lungs as he’s pressed his groin to Sherlock’s stomach, Sherlock’s mouth against his collarbone. “No! No, Sherlock I was, I was-”
When he opens his mouth to speak, Sherlock puffs breath right into the wool at John’s right pectoral. “You baited me, John. You can’t be surprised that I bit.” He tries for bored but ends up somewhere around giddy as he settles his palms a bit more solidly under John’s bottom.
Even as his forehead falls against Sherlock’s shoulder, even as he carries John out through the hallway, he demands. “Put me down. Now!”
John beats half-heartedly against Sherlock’s back even as he laughs, chest jostling against Sherlock’s cheek. John even reaches out a hand to grip the door jamb but let’s go after a moment with a huff of a chuckle.
“Now John, wouldn’t want to pop those stitches.” He steers through the kitchen into the sitting room and manages to release the doctor onto the sofa with only a slight drop and a barely-audible “Ooof!” There’s a bit of bouncing before John rights himself, shuffles forward on the sofa to sit properly.
With a waggle of his fingers John blushes, glances up at Sherlock. “Thank you. Not for the... for that because if you ever do that to me again I won’t think twice about beating you round the head, but for the...” Again, he waggles his fingers.
Sherlock smiles with his eyes from beneath a veil of fringe. He says nothing for a moment before reaching a tentative hand to sweep briefly over John’s brow. Startlingly intimate and he pulls away as though he’s been burned, as if he’s remembering himself.
“Yes, well, you’ll have to walk me through the rest of this recipe,” and then he’s in the kitchen, a whirlwind of a man, slipping on the apron he wears when he’s dealing with noxious chemicals. “I’m not totally helpless but you did seem as though you were making this from memory, so-”
Sherlock holds up the knife and gives John a stunningly innocent look.
“Well,” John says after a very put upon sigh. “You can start by finishing those carrots, yeah?”
And Sherlock takes to the chopping with gusto though he’s sure to handle the knife very, very carefully as John guides him.