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"It's a boy."
Sherlock blinks and looks away from his microscope, sighing warmly as John's hand comes to rest over his trapezius while his chin digs into the opposite shoulder. He presses a soft kiss to the corner of Sherlock's jaw, inhaling the subtle scent of his shaving lotion and the chemicals he's been working with all day, that odd combination of scents that marks him as familiar and home. Sherlock's spine is a soft ridge against his sternum, and he relaxes against the heat of him and the slow swell of his breath, the tectonic shift of muscle under skin.
"Hello," be breathes, nosing gently against Sherlock's ear. It's been a long day.
"Hello," Sherlock returns, amused. "What's a boy?"
John pulls away to put on the kettle, enjoying the brief flicker of annoyance that crosses Sherlock's face at the loss of contact. He rests a hip on the counter as he stares down the detective, one dark brow drawn up in an interrogative.
"The duchess' new baby?" John queries, searching for any sign of recognition. "Third in line to the throne? The press have been camped outside St. Mary's for weeks, and…"
John pauses, letting the vowel drip from his tongue, slow and heavy molasses. The plosive drops from his lips with a quiet pop, and Sherlock stares at him with a slight crease to his brow, one that John has learned to mean 'why should I care about this?'. John lets out a laughing sigh.
"You have no clue what I'm talking about," he says, shaking his head a little, and turns to take two mugs out of the cupboard. "Well. Pick your poison, then."
"Oolong." John licks his lip, rummaging through the various containers to see if there's any left. "Please." It's an afterthought, but the attempt implies good humour and he isn't about to complain.
When he turns back, Sherlock is regarding him carefully, the cool hue of his eyes struck bluish in the civil twilight and the greenish glow of the florescents. The dark ring gating his irises looks almost black in this light, and John pauses with the tea in his hand to meet his gaze curiously. After a moment, Sherlock tilts his head to the side, and John reaches back blindly to drop the tin on the counter before stepping around the table to kiss his brow.
"What?" he murmurs against the strong crest of his occipital, and Sherlock turns into him and wraps an arm around his waist.
"Rough day," he observes quietly, snaking his hand beneath the wool to curl his fingers into the dip above John's sacrum. Brushed twill creases against John's spine, the warmth of long fingers seeping through to his skin, and he hums a little at the contact. "Colleagues taking a bit too much interest in the proceedings at the Lindo Wing? You spilled coffee and burned yourself this morning, enough that you left a cold compress on your wrist while processing paperwork. And Sarah's sick, so you had to deal with someone irritating in her stead. Do you want to have children?"
It takes John a moment, wrapped in warm contentment as he is, to process the non sequitur. "Sherlock," he says, slowly, "there are in fact some things you're not actually capable of, despite your massive ego, so unless Mycroft's involved you in some bizarre top-secret government experiment-"
"Don't be absurd," Sherlock snaps, pulling away, and John lets him go with some bemusement. Sherlock turns back to his microscope, his posture clearly dismissive, and John waits for him to explain himself. Perhaps most predictably, Sherlock ignores him.
"Okay, I give up. What are we talking about now?"
"Nothing. Forget it."
"Sherlock," John warns, switching off the microscope light, and Sherlock turns to scowl up at him. "What's wrong?"
"I said forget it."
John furrows his brow for a moment, trying to decide the best approach. Not for the first time in their relationship, he wishes he could borrow Sherlock's ability to read people, studying the protective curl of Sherlock's shoulders and the stubborn line of his mouth. Finally, he reads hurt there. His posture softens at the sight, and he takes a moment to drag the other chair over and sit down in it, his eyes level with Sherlock's.
"You know I was teasing, with the ego comment," he ventures, and Sherlock twists his lips into a sneer.
"Obviously."
"Right. Okay." John reaches out for a moment before thinking better of it, and folds his hands into his lap. He tries again. "Do you?"
Sherlock raises his eyebrows, the kettle chooses this moment to sing, and John internally curses the damn thing's timing. After a pointed look from Sherlock, he frowns and gets up to shut it off, falling into the familiar patterns of making tea; the water, the strainer, the clink of the tin. After a moment he registers the soft rustle of cloth, and when Sherlock's long frame presses up against him in the small gap between table and counter, the tension leaves his body in a rush. Long fingers rest hesitantly on his ribs, and John leans back into him with an encouraging noise: is rewarded with an embrace. He closes his hands over Sherlock's while they wait for the tea to steep.
"You give up so much, for this."
Sherlock's voice is a low vibration through the entirety of his thoracic cavity, and John curls his toes at the feeling. His socks catch on the small rug at his feet. When it's clear that Sherlock isn't going to continue, he turns in his arms, tangling his fingers into lush dark curls. He stretches up in order to brush their noses together.
"Do I?"
Sherlock exhales as though it pains him. "John. Don't be ridiculous."
"You like ridiculous." He is rewarded with a chuckle. "But I'm not. Being ridiculous, that is. Right now, anyway. Give it a minute."
Sherlock snorts and opens his eyes, and the effect of his scrutiny at this close a range is… intense, almost terrifyingly so. It is nothing John can't handle, however, and he meets his gaze with aplomb and cards his fingers through Sherlock's hair, grinning when he tips his head back into the caress.
"That's cheating."
"Is it?" John says mildly, running his nails lightly across the scalp, and Sherlock shivers a little.
"Stop that."
John grins at him and kisses him on the nose. "I don't think I'm giving up much of anything, really."
Sherlock huffs with irritation. "John, we live in a flat. We're up all hours of the night, doing what is occasionally very dangerous work, and despite, as you so charmingly phrased it, my massive ego, I am more than aware that I am a difficult man to live with, let alone maintain a healthy sexual and emotional relationship with. You're the kind of man that grew up with expectations; a house, a small and irritating dog, a wife and approximately two point five children scrambling about the premises-"
"-while I'm bored out of my mind and my leg acts up…" John continues, amused. "Sherlock, really. It's fine. Sure, I wouldn't say no to kids, but I haven't got a burning urge to go out and spawn progeny or anything the way some blokes do. It's really okay."
"You'd make a good father," Sherlock argues, attempting to pull back, but John keeps hold of him and shakes his head.
"And you wouldn't?"
Sherlock stills, tilting his head to stare down at him as though he's legitimately frightened for John's sanity. "Did you hit your head on the Tube?"
His question startles a laugh out of John, and he tips his head back and lets himself enjoy it for a moment. Sherlock's arms tighten around his waist, and John sighs and leans in for a quick kiss. "You're good at most things you set your mind to. I'm sure we'd manage if we had to."
Sherlock's expression morphs into one of genuine distress. "John, Baker Street is no place for a child. My work is incredibly erratic, not to mention dangerous-"
"And we would manage, if we had to," John says firmly. "Thankfully we'll never have to worry about it, seeing as we're both men." He paused. "Unless there really is some terrifying government experiment you've been keeping from me."
Sherlock's derisive look speaks volumes. He does not look entirely convinced, and John takes a moment to turn back to the counter and take care of the tea. Sherlock's arms slip away as he heads back to his seat, and John sighs at the loss of warmth before following. He sets one cup down on a free square of table and takes the second seat, regarding his obstinate companion through the haze of steam. Sherlock studiously avoids his gaze.
"Are you happy?"
Sherlock stills, hand halfway to his cup, and turns luminous eyes to search John's expression. "What?" Sherlock hates using this word, and John smiles a little at having surprised him. He leans forward in his chair.
"Are you happy," he repeats, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"Yes, I heard you. What do you mean, 'happy'?"
John shrugs and takes a sip, letting the heat of the tea seep into his chest. Perfect. "Here, with me, doing what we're doing. With the work and with our lives. Are you happy?"
Sherlock stills, considering this, nonessential functions going offline as his mind does its calculations. For a moment John has a fanciful vision of their life metered out into spreadsheet columns; tea, cases, kissing, flat cleanliness. Please rate on a scale of one to ten.
"For the most part, I suppose."
John raises his brows at that. "For the most part?"
Sherlock favours him with a withering look. "Yes. Clearly there are things I would change had I the power or time or motivation."
John flicks his tongue over his lip for a moment, pulse suddenly present in his ears. "Like what?" he asks, faintly.
Sherlock narrows his eyes at him, analysing for a moment, until his expression softens at whatever he finds in the familiar planes of John's face. A corner of his mouth flicks up. "The frequency of cases, not having enough money to ensure you never have to take a shift at St. Bart's ever again, your insufferable need to help people you don't even like, the idiocy of the human race, your shifts interfering with the work, Lestrade's continual suspicion that I am using despite all evidence to the contrary, how often you worry, the fact that we've never had sex in the morgue-"
"What?" John splutters, tea sloshing over his fingers in his surprise. He sets his cup down with a litany of curses, jumping up to fetch a dishcloth and mop up the mess. He thinks he's blushed down to his toes, and when he looks up Sherlock is staring at him with an expression that is two parts heat, five parts mirth, and three parts smug.
"Surely walking in on you bent over an autopsy table halfway through an orgasm — or vice versa, whichever — would convince Molly to leave off her ridiculous crush."
It's possible that John blushes even harder at this image. He's not sure how it's possible, but Sherlock excels at impossibilities, and John certainly wouldn't put it past him to run that kind of experiment. For a moment his train of thought is blindsided by the visceral twinge of arousal; the cold steel digging mercilessly into the wings of his iliac crest, chest pressed flat against the shuddering metal. It would feel strange, trapped between the heat of Sherlock's body and the ice of the grating, even the softest sounds of their breathing echoing wildly through the room. John swallows audibly and pulls himself back into the present reality of the kitchen. It isn't as though Sherlock hasn't experimented on him before.
"Molly's gotten much better," John protests, voice mostly steady. "She even stands up to you, now she knows you respect her after the whole Moriarty fiasco."
Sherlock sighs and leans back in his chair. "Yes, but she hasn't entirely gotten over her ridiculous infatuation. I'll be much happier when she's dating some simpering idiot who'll indulge her trite, overly-palatial romantic fantasies."
John grins and takes another sip of tea, settling a bit. "You mean you'll be happier when your good friend that you love and care about very much has found someone who adores her and treats her right?"
"Saying both love and care about to describe the same interpersonal relationship is redundant," Sherlock mutters, and John's lips twitch in delight at what is most definitely a win. "She can't be looking properly if she's still insisting on this ridiculous crush."
"People can't control how they feel. And maybe she doesn't want a relationship right now," John points out. "Anyway, Molly's caught us snogging like teenagers with your hand halfway down my trousers, in the bloody lab at half four in the morning no less. More than once, even. Embarrassingly, I don't think it'd make much of a difference if she did catch you buggering me over a table."
"Pity," Sherlock deadpans, and John laughs despite himself. "An adrenalin addict such as yourself would likely benefit greatly from having sex with the expectation of being interrupted mid-coitus. I'm sure it'd add a rather brilliant edge to things. Like that time in the alley after he Barrington case. Or in the supply closet at New Scotland Yard."
John inhales sharply at the memory. "That week was absolutely mad," he murmurs, heat crawling up his neck. "I had a feeling you were experimenting on me, too."
Sherlock, outrageously, winks at him over his cup. After a moment of shock, John dissolves into a fit of almost violent giggles, and Sherlock beams down at him, inordinately pleased. He drinks his tea with a smug quirk to his lips as John gets himself under control.
"Tell you what. Make a list — or rather write it out somewhere for me, since clearly you've already got a list of grievances — and I'll see what I can do," John suggests, half-sly, half-shy at the idea. Sherlock's expression is positively incandescent.
"John," he says, nostrils flaring slightly, and John laughs at his expression. He looks like a child on Christmas morning, and John stretches forward to press his lips to the edge of Sherlock's jaw.
"See?" he says. "You like ridiculous."
Sherlock laughs, a low rumble of sound tumbling into his mouth as he finds himself being very thoroughly kissed. "Mm. Perhaps I just like you."
"Soppy," John teases, lips brushing as they speak, and he feels Sherlock's answering pout against his lips. "I'm happy, here. With you." He punctuates each statement with a warm, open-mouthed kiss. "You've given me so much. Even when you leave body parts all over the flat. Maybe I'm mad. We're mad. But I'm happy. So it's all fine. Okay?"
Sherlock leans into him in lieu of a response, tongue pressing into his mouth with casual efficiency, and John submits to a lazy, thorough kiss. Their legs tangle together under the table, and he can feel heat coiling low in his abdomen at the feel of long shins entwined with his, a hand braced over his hip with a thumb tracing patterns into the iliac crest. An autopsy table, John's mind supplies helpfully, would bruise beautifully.
"Love you," Sherlock mutters, they way he always says it; reluctant, as though the words have been pulled from him without permission, like a sullen teenager asked to admit a crush. John loves him dearly for it.
"Good," he replies, kissing him again for good measure, and then, "have you eaten today?"
Sherlock starts guiltily, and John sighs. "See? What would I want with a baby? I've got you to take care of. You can't even bloody feed yourself."
Sherlock sighs dramatically and turns back to the microscope. "Transport, John."
"Transport my arse," John growls under his breath, and turns to rummage in the drawer for the takeaway menus. "You're lucky I love you."
"Yes," Sherlock agrees. "I am."