Chapter 1
John stared at Sherlock. Just stared at him. He was breathing hard, his lips quivering, still slightly shiny from where Sherlock had pressed his own lips against them.
"No, Sherlock. That's not- we were never-"
"Never, John? Really? Do you really believe that?"
September, 2011;
John laughs, wiping a bit of sauce from the corner of his mouth. "No, no, Sherlock. That's not right. You- you really didn't know that?"
Sherlock sits across from him, arms crossed, pouting. "I don't see why it's necessary to know."
"To know how photosynthesis works?"
"Oh, like you're such an expert."
John chuckles, doing his best not to laugh too hard. "Sherlock... What did you think? I mean, how do you think flowers eh... Eat?"
Sherlock scoffs, throwing his arms into the air. "That's the thing, they don't eat, John. How was I supposed to know they needed sustenance at all? The bees pollinate them, and that's enough."
John stared at him, his eyes glistening. "God, we've got to get you into a first grade classroom."
"Why?"
"It'd do you some good."
"Absolutely not. That's humiliating. And children are mean."
John burst out laughing, drawing a few wayward glances from the other restaurant-goers. Neither of them care.
"Don't tell me you're scared of kids."
"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I'm not scared. I just don't particularly like socializing with snotty little know-it-alls."
John resists saying, a bit too similar to yourself? And instead just takes a sip of his soda, thinking about something nicer to say. What comes out is, "You don't seem to like socializing with anyone."
Sherlock twirls the straw of his drink- just water, as he hadn't consumed any for a solid week, and John could not stand him when he got dehydrated- and looked up at him shyly. It was so uncharacteristic and strange that John almost missed what Sherlock said, too busy thinking about this new side of him.
"I like socializing with you."
John paused. Blinked. Smiled. Coughed. "Yeah, me too."
They walked home together side by side. There wasn't much conversation, since it had started raining about halfway through their lunch, and they hadn't brought an umbrella. By the time they got home, they were sopping wet.
"I'm sure Mycroft never has this problem." John laughs as he opens the door of 221B for Sherlock.
"Well, he hardly ever goes outside anyways." Sherlock snickers.
John's about to make some- quite frankly awfully horrible- rude joke about Mycroft when they hear Mrs. Hudson make a noise of distress. They look at her, and John becomes extremely aware that they had just been staring at each other.
"Boys! You're soaked!" Mrs. Hudson cries. "You're getting my floor all wet and you'll- you'll catch cold!" She says, walking over and taking their coats from them and hanging them up. "Go and get changed!" She scolds.
Sherlock toes his shoes off, and picks them up, starting up the stairs. John does the same, so as to not drag the mud on them all over.
When he walks into their flat, Sherlock is already making work of changing. He's in the entrance, swaying a little as he struggles to get his shirt over his head. He stumbles, nearly falling over. John catches him by his bare chest. He's freezing.
John helps Sherlock take his shirt off, then nods to the bathroom. "Go take a shower. You're frigid."
Sherlock takes the hand towel from their kitchen sink and uses it to dry his hair. "Yes, John. My poor circulation system means that I often am cold." He says this like John is stupid. John has learned not to take offense.
"Well, maybe, if you did less drugs, your circulation would be better."
Sherlock goes into his room, and comes out with a pile of clean clothes. "Only by a small margin. It's hereditary. Will you make tea while I'm in the shower?" He says, but the door to the bathroom is closed before John can answer.
So, John puts a kettle on low heat while he changes into warm pajamas.
The kettle whistles just as John hears the shower turn off. He smiles, and takes two tea bags out. Earl Grey for himself, and chamomile for Sherlock.
Sherlock comes out, and sits on the counter, a bit too close to the stove for John's comfort, and plugs in the hairdryer in the outlet behind him. He turns it on, and begins blowing it over his hair.
"Get off my counter." John swats his knee.
"What?" Sherlock shouts, louder than necessary. The hairdryer wasn't that loud.
"Get off the- hey! That's my shirt!"
Sherlock looks down at himself, then looks back up mischievously. "Is it? Haven't noticed."
"You can't steal my things."
"It was in my dresser." Sherlock says innocently.
The timer for the tea's seeping goes off, and John places Sherlock's tea next to him, far enough away that he wouldn't knock it over. John moves a chair out of the way and sits on the table across from Sherlock, holding his tea between his knees.
The hairdryer turns off, and the flat becomes quiet again.
"We haven't had a case in a while." Sherlock comments over his tea.
"It's been nine days."
Sherlock nods emphatically. "I know, this is the longest I've gone without a case without doing drugs. Haven't even smoked."
John hums. "You're doing better, then?"
"Mycroft certainly thinks so. Lestrade, too."
John reached out slowly, nervously. He places a hand on Sherlock's knee and squeezes it. "I'm... Proud of you, mate." He says slowly, his voice cracking.
Sherlock stares at his hand. He looks up at John and licks his lips. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights. John panics, and begins to remove his hand, but Sherlock slaps his hand on top of John's, keeping it there.
"I mean, it's really not that big of an accomplishment." He says, rolling his eyes. "Just a meager amount of self control I should've learned as a child."
"Sherlock, you're getting clean. This is such a big deal."
"No, John, it isn't. I used last month, remember?"
John blinked and looks away. "Yeah."
He remembers finding Sherlock high out of his mind and thinking he'd nearly overdosed again. They'd had a too-close-call earlier in the year.
"Besides, don't talk about me like I'm an addict."
"Right. Not an addict. Just a user." John mocks him.
"I can stop anytime I want to."
"Every. Single. Addict says that."
Sherlock hums, and looks down at their hands. He inhaled sharply, like he hadn't even realized what he'd done, or was now suddenly regretting it, and removed his hand.
"Sorry about that." He says, almost as an afterthought.
"I don't mind." John's says, shrugging.