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[ Who knew. He leaves the note on the table, untouched, and gets seated by his microscope. The dishes are still here, of course, and the one he'd left out looks positively ripe. Then again, he's not exactly been diligent in keeping to his experimental framework, has he? The samples have been sitting here, out at room temperature ever since he left to pick John up. And afterwards, too, obviously. Probably doesn't quite merit a trip to Bart's, just to stare at the all-too-predictable after effects. He frowns. Reaches for a small piece of fabric, pressed between two slides and clips it onto the stage. He speaks without looking at John, voice low and relatively neutral. ]

So, you left to buy breakfast - implying, I'd say, that you're planning on cooking it. For us, going by the amount you've just put out. [ He frowns. Adjusts the focus slightly before continuing. ] Either you're content to leave things - [ Not the best word, granted, but his vocabulary seems a bit stumped when it comes to what's just happened between them. ] - as they are, whatever that implies, or you've chosen a needlessly complicated approach to making amends.

[ It's clearly a piece of curtain cloth, he thinks, eyebrows furrowing slightly. Traces of rubber polymer. Coated fabric. Re-coated at least twice. Not enough to block out the light 100 percent but close. Certainly, it would make the inside of a small, cramped living room seem even less inviting, wouldn't it? His head is running two, parallel tracks at the moment - the curtain-mystery (which, really, is not so much a mystery as a convenient source of distraction) and John, John who's looking at him right now, who said last night was nice.

He realises only now that John probably left a note for him to ensure that he knew he'd come back again. The thought makes something in his chest tighten. ]

[ With an only halfway exasperated expression, he listens to Sherlock -- deduce his way out of the very simple scenario that is John definitely planning on making them breakfast, yes, the both of them and no, not to leave things (really, that's an unfortunate terminology, Sherlock) as they are, but because he's bloody starving and he's willing to bet, Sherlock is, too. They put about equal amounts of effort into last night, after all. A grimace as the other man finishes his very long and very complicated sentence, before he turns around and shuts off the water, the sink flooded at the bottom, days' worth of dirt collecting in the drain. Once he's made them breakfast, he might find that he can't live in this filth and clean up. Maybe. ]

Unless you feel amends are in order, that's not what I'm doing, Sherlock. I'm going to stuff us with food, because we probably sweated out half our body weight and I'm not going to let you shrink into nothing now.

[ Perhaps he would have the day before yesterday, if nothing else then to enjoy the quiet for a bit, but now? Not a chance.

Turning around once more, he looks over at Sherlock sitting at his microscope, the way he always does when he's trying to figure stuff out, all those little elements he can tie together in his head which remains incredible to this day, trumped only by how incredibly dense the man can be in regards to -- well, pretty much all things human. John shakes his head and grabs the eggs and the butter, turning on the cooker and moving past Sherlock's back to fetch a pan. He's left with not even the slightest twinge of regret, it's nothing like their first, drunken kiss a month ago, really, it's nothing like that. Instead, it's pretty clear to him (crystal) that he doesn't fully understand what it is that's happened between them, he doesn't fully grasp the shift, but that's fine, because it was nice and he'd do it again, should the opportunity present itself (hopefully without sitting in detention for hours first with a bloke he panic-shagged in a cheap hotel, if you'd please).

Once the butter has sizzled, he cracks the eggs into the pan, whipping them up with the filling knife, caring very little about the texture of the mix. This is bachelor's food, confirmed. Apparently. ]

Edited 2019-02-17 12:56 (UTC)

[ So fine, no making amends. He stares at the threads in the microscope, realising that he ought to adjust the light and finding zero inclinations to actually do so. What does it matter, he already knows what this is, what he'll find if he looks any closer, where it'll end. It's a very different story, him and John, and the other man isn't making it any simpler for him; negations are, in this context, as efficient as non-answers, meaning not even a little, and he can feel himself growing irritated, even as he removes the slides, dumping them on the table carelessly. ]

That's a terrible assessment.

[ He straightens up in his seat, finally looking at John who's chosen this time to turn away to cook the eggs, a warm smell of melted butter drifting through the air. Gaze following the lines of his back, all the way up to his shoulder, he realises that there ought to be marks still, five in total. The thought immediately sparks up at least a dozen others, all very much related, and he looks away just to put them on hold, seeing as he's on the verge of actually abandoning his chair, just to pull the man's shirt down for a closer look.

With a sigh of frustration, he finally just waves a hand at John's back. ]

John. [ He hates the notes of confusion clearly audible in his voice but for god's sake, this isn't obvious to him at all and by the way, that's why he never does it - relationships - to begin with. Had it been anyone but John, he could have just left - or made them leave - but it's not and he doesn't want to. The eggs smell nice, too. Nice. He's starting to dislike that word rather vehemently. The deduction ought to be fairly straightforward - John's cooking for them because he doesn't want them to starve, meaning that he's certainly harbouring no ill feelings towards him since last night's activities - and he's not regretful about them, either. It ought to be straightforward, yes, but it isn't - because there remains a huge difference between John, being gracious about something he'd rather never repeat again - or John being generous because he's just that delighted about it. ] Just tell me what's going on.

[ The eggs are coming together rather nicely -- and wait, he told Sherlock it was nice, last night, didn't he? Perhaps not the clearest term to use, but it felt appropriate at the time, just open-ended and yet specific enough to really cover the entire -- thing. Now he's doing it, too. Sherlock, you utter cock. Just tell me what's going on, the other man says to him and there's a very audible note of desperation in his tone. He might sound indifferent to others, cold, irritated, to people who don't know him, meaning pretty much -- the world, yes, but John can tell the difference. This isn't Sherlock demanding something from some witness in a case, this is Sherlock asking him what the bloody hell happened and what will happen next. Between them. The cold facts, as if either coldness or factuality are of importance in relation to sleeping with your best friend. He sighs, puts the filling knife away and yanks the pan off the heat, before turning around and crossing his arms over his chest. Sherlock hasn't left his spot in front of his microscope, but the samples have been abandoned on the table and his one hand is still lingering in the air after a wave. Frustration, then. Sherlock's hands are always everywhere when he's frustrated. ]

Well, we shagged. We shagged and it was, if you ask me, very successful, very enjoyable, very pleasant. 10/10, would do again. [ A slight huff of breath and he catches Sherlock's eyes across the short distance between them. There's a heavy smell of eggs and butter in the air and it's somehow a very vulnerable moment, isn't it? They're putting themselves out there and anything could happen, absolutely anything. John frowns, then shakes his head slightly. ] I'm telling you, I'm fine with it, the next bit's not only up to me, though.

[ He recognises that he's quoting Sherlock's own phrasing back at him, the next bit, from last night, right? After John made him -- lick his palm, that was what he said. Can't help you with the next bit. He remembers. Oh, he remembers very well. Clearing his throat, he swallows something thick in his throat and blinks a couple of times, trying to make the mental image of Sherlock naked underneath him, hands... This is the drawback, of course, that he'll be running around with these sort of memories in his arsenal and they're bound to rear their heads at very inconvenient times, like the next time they talk to Lestrade, for example. That would be awkward. And also very welcome.

John likes the package. He'll take all of it. ]

[ John adds on a handful of unnecessary (but oddly gratifying) adjectives, tells him it's fine, he's fine with it. The shag. There's a long moment of silence afterwards, during which Sherlock seriously contemplates simply shrugging it off, telling John to eat his eggs and just heading back to bed. The bed, which still reeks of sex. Yes, that would be a suitable self-punishment, wouldn't it, for landing himself (and John) in this situation to begin with. However, though this whole thing makes him deeply uncomfortable, he can't readily ignore what's John actually telling him - the next bit he says, in a clear throw-back to Sherlock's comment last night. Connect the dots. His gaze flickers sideways. The next bit. ]

You... don't mind. [ That's one conclusion, done away with. Next up. ] Well, of course you don't, you're hardly as straight as you usually proclaim. Though, when you say - would do again - [ Fingers doing quotation marks. ] - are you implying you'd do me - [ Pointing to himself here, just to clarify. ] - or some other, random fellow you pick up? In the case of the latter, I recommend you look around for somebody who's not your bloody copy, seeing as there are in fact more efficient ways to have sex with yourself.

[ With that, he gets up, feeling completely agitated, restless enough, even, to grab the filling knife and scrub the eggs around in the pan (uselessly, very) before dropping it to the counter and stalking off into the living room, pausing by the window behind his chair with his arms crossed. He probably ought to just stay around and listen to whatever John has to say to that, but in all honesty, he's quite concerned about what it might be, and he just doesn't like not knowing. It's very unfamiliar ground to him, though the possibilities aren't exactly endless, they're impossible to narrow down. It's like that time when he was 4 (and many times, after) and some older kid had suggested they climb up a tree to "touch the sky". That had been a very long, very tedious afternoon. Mycroft had thought him immensely stupid. ]

[ Sherlock proceeds to word vomit very spectacularly. He'll tell you he's doing his deduction trick, but in fact he's just letting out steam because he's uncertain and John -- John can take it. He doesn't mind this either. Listening to what the other man is inquiring, would you do me (?) or some other, random fellow (?), answer being the former, check, he follows him with his eyes as he grabs the filling knife and pushes the eggs very, very aimlessly around the pan and then stalks off into the living room. He's not even sticking around to hear what John has to say in response, it he? Grandly typical. Grandly. Rolling his eyes, John lets his arms drop to his sides and follows him into the other room, after having turned the heat off the cooker completely, finding him standing behind his chair, near the window and it reminds John very forcefully of the night before, before they'd gotten into bed and he'd kissed -- his neck, the long stretch of skin covering the man's upper spine and he'd pressed his hand to the small of his back and it had been fine. Physical contact. It had been... nice.

He takes a deep breath, rests his hands on his hips and speaks to Sherlock's back first: ]

I'm talking about you and me and the sex we should definitely make a habit of. [ Because he wants there to be a them, right? He wants a Sherlock and John rather than a Sherlock and his friend slash colleague slash partner, John. He wants them to be just -- Sherlock and John. Being friends was good, but this holds the potential to be better and if Sherlock doesn't think so, well, then he's endlessly more stupid than John ever gave him credit for. Which is saying something, really. He bites his lower lip a long moment, then decides to hell with the eggs and breakfast and marches across the room, stopping next to Sherlock's chair, only half a step behind the other man. He could make a joke about the both of them needing to be tested for STDs now, thanks to this random, other fellow that Sherlock is addressing, but the timing feels off, so instead he hesitates only a second before reaching out and placing his hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades, his back tense and unapproachable through the multiple layers of bathrobe and shirt, not that this has ever deterred John earlier in the script. ] You're free to prove me wrong, but I really don't see any problems with this, Sherlock.

[ John follows him almost immediately and that alone is a relief because it's so familiar, it's the same as ever (ever, meaning the past one and a half year but it does sometimes seem like longer; no doubt, there's some connection here between the mind's temporal perception and event decoding slash management that he's not going to wonder about any further). We should definitely make a habit of it, John says, more or less, and he realises only now that those were the exact words he'd wanted to hear. Obviously, he could have figured that out if he'd had the time (the peace of mind) to properly think about it but as luck will have it, when it comes to things like this, his brain always act so stupidly deficient.

At the touch between his shoulder blades, he can feel himself visibly sag, tension leaving his upper body and settling very briefly in his hands, curling into fists for a second before uncurling again. He takes a moment longer to simply stare out of the window, thinking that it's so like John, this. Expecting things to be so simple. Sherlock knows habits - they're easily acquired, yes, but hard to be without. Certain habits, immensely so. He looks down, runs one hand through his hair quickly, then turns around slowly to face the other man. A slight smile and a raised eyebrow: ]

I'm not surprised. [ He finally just steps closer, reaching out and running his hand up John's side, his cable knit sweater slightly rough beneath his palm. He's warm, underneath. Well yes, obviously, seeing as he's not dead or undead or... He cuts that thought off before it runs away. ] Some risks, John, are extremely foolish. If we do this - [ His hand pauses, about to slide around, to the small of John's back. ] - then I won't hear any whinging when it goes haywire.

[ Though the words may be slightly harsh, there's an undercurrent of actual worry beneath because he knows what sort of life he leads, what his job requires and what it entails. John's accepted all of that before but they haven't actually... Well. To say there's been nothing to lose between them would be incredibly untrue, not to mention ridiculous. But surely, there's a difference still. Somewhere in the mix. ]

[ Turning around, fingers flexing into fists at his sides briefly before relaxing again, Sherlock sends him a small smile and a raised eyebrow, telling him about risks, about foolishness, about things going boom and it's sort of amusing how the other man addresses this like it's a phenomenon still to come, like it hasn't gone haywire from the beginning, like John wasn't strapped into a bloody bomb vest or gets kidnapped on a regular basis by Sherlock's own brother. Yes, it's sort of amusing how they're talking about their relationship like it hasn't been exactly like this (minus one single element, a very enjoyable element, too, but one element still) from the beginning. Well, that element and the resultant touching. They're doing well with the touching, he thinks and looks down at Sherlock's hand against his arm, sliding lower until it's making as if to pull him closer by the small of his back.

Sherlock asked him, back at the beginning, if he wanted to see more injuries and violent deaths and he'd been completely, utterly, brutally honest when he'd gasped out his oh God yes. Really, no filter, nothing. He'd embraced it without any restraints whatsoever and this, well, this is just an extension of that. He'd say the exact same thing all over again. However, he does elaborate when he replies, a slight smile at the corner of his mouth and both eyebrows raised: ]

With my nervous system, by medical assessment found to be shot, it's more likely I'll be cheering, you know.

[ John has lived and worked in the world's harshest, most dangerous environment, he knows danger, he knows what it looks like, how its consequences feels between your hands. He knows injury on a very personal scale and he knows death. Nothing (and he means absolutely nothing) Sherlock can dish out will be worse than the weight he still carries around in his army doctor title, minus perhaps Sherlock himself getting killed, that would be horrible and he's not going to think about it right now with Sherlock looking at him like that, but even Sherlock dying -- They'd have had this, nothing lasts forever and they'd have had their time, right?

This is their time. ]

[ I'll be cheering. Sherlock stares at him, unable to keep himself from thinking through worst case scenarios and coming up blank with regards to John - he oughtn't be in any of them. It's fine that he likes risks, that he likes danger, that's how they're compatible, isn't it. John craves it. Sherlock craves excitement, the way his blood rushes faster and his mind takes flight in the face of something particularly devious. Drugs. War. Hardly the same at all, but John's still telling him that he's seen enough by far to know what he's agreeing to and at this point, Sherlock realises he's beyond trying to tell him differently. Why would he, anyway? See for yourself, then, if you must. If you're so attracted to risk. ]

If you do that, people will talk.

[ Spoken with a tilt of his mouth, as he leans down and kisses him, hand tightening against John's side. He tastes like a new day, John, and while Sherlock isn't naive enough to believe that this won't complicate things beyond imagination further down the road, he can't - for the moment - bring himself to care. It would have been easier, granted, if John had simply perceived what they did last night as another case of experimentation, a springboard to a much, much wider dating pool. Yes, it would have also left Sherlock quite... dissatisfied but surely, wounds like that are easily mended, if not just ignored into oblivion. He slips his hand to the small of John's back, flattening his palm against him and pulling him closer. It's a long kiss, slower than last night. The contrast between the physical now - the warmth of John's lips, the feel of his body close to his - and the sense of future, of catastrophic inability lingering in his mind - is odd.

If they do this enough, perhaps one will push away the other, to some dark corner where at least, they won't have to stare it in the face for many months (years - ah, he's not that stupid) to come. ]

[ People already do.

Since the start, people have assumed that they were a couple, that Sherlock was his boyfriend. They've assumed that John was gay. He has spent a whole lot of time creating a narrative that he now has to unravel and retell from scratch, not that he expects there'll be much of a revelation about it for anyone else, aside from himself (sure, he'll admit to being a tiny bit surprised still, scratch that, try with bloody well shell-shocked, if you think about it). It is exactly as Sherlock said back then, having ripped his bloody clothes off at the swimming pool, people do little else, in fact. They talk. So let them hear him cheer.

Then, Sherlock leans down and kisses him. It's a different sort of kiss than the one(s) they exchanged the night before, less thirsty, less needy, but even so it's also longer. Slower. The other man's arm comes around his back, palm flattened against the small of it and pulling him closer and John steps forward well into Sherlock's intimate sphere without a moment's hesitation. He'll have to get used to this (not exactly a difficult feat, he'll say so much), the physicality of it when they're usually working in each their separate areas, Planet Sherlock and Planet John, right? Supposedly he's been bridging that distance from the get-go, though, and the kissing is just an additional perk that he'll gladly take.

Reaching up, he rests his right hand against the jut of Sherlock's hipbone, prominent even through layers of pajamas bottoms and bathrobe, because he needs the breakfast that John will go make him in approximately half a minute. He draws back from the kiss, exhales deeply and smiles. Doesn't move away, not immediately - he expects Sherlock will be the first to go, he always is. ]

So, hungry?

[ John draws back from the kiss and asks a stupid question but Sherlock lets it slide, lips feeling wet, almost over-stimulated. He shrugs lightly and steps away, out of John's reach for now, pulling his dressing gown closer around his body. He's not on a case, not particularly active and not particularly invested in keeping anything running. It'll run itself, his body, at least for a while (and hopefully, they won't be without a case much longer than that). He flops into his chair, the leather creaking slightly as he makes himself comfortable, shifting here and there, a tint of that hellish, inherent unrest making itself known already. He thinks about last night. Relaxes just a fraction, then remembers that John asked him a question. He cranes his neck, looking over at the other man. ]

Not especially. Tea would be fine.

[ He stretches out his legs. Lets his gaze slip away from John once again, wandering the ceiling aimlessly while he returns his thoughts to that curtain sample. Perhaps he'll be kind and text Lestrade the solution, though he did originally refuse to concern himself with the case; too unremarkable, completely commonplace. But possibly, just possibly, last night's left him in a somewhat more... charitable mood? Silly thought, that. Even if there's a chemical, stress-reducing effect associated with sexual pleasure, it's hardly going to affect you so many hours following the event. Perhaps he's just... not currently unhappy or overly bored.

Imagine that. ]

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