Chapter Text
It was a Sunday morning and a rather peaceful one at that for 221B. John busied himself with tidying the sitting room and starting a few loads of laundry while Sherlock took up all of the space in the kitchen, setting down stacks of notes and heaps of file folders that looked ancient to crumbling.
Rust colored manila. The borrowed police files, then.
The detective had been muttering to himself for the better part of three hours about what exactly was under his microscope slide. Unable to abide the nonstop and seemingly indecipherable words, John had escaped the flat - having not bothered at all with trying to fix dinner amongst the chaos - and had taken himself off to the Indian place around the block, looking to procure them some sort of sustenance.
When he returned, Sherlock’s neck was craned even further than it had been when he’d left, hair fluffy and unkempt as though he’d been tugging at it in vain. The detective, standing at the microscope, twisted his hips from side to side, mouth pressed into a straight line as he squinted into the eyepiece. One hand rested on the fine adjustment knob and the other cut through the air so swiftly and with such precision that it looked as though he was conducting the rhythm of his own thoughts.
And perhaps he was; John didn’t like to think about that though, about what the inner workings of Sherlock’s mind looked like. He couldn’t even begin to imagine.
“Can’t be New Zealand, impossible,” Sherlock chastised himself and John rolled his eyes appropriately at the man’s commentary, began pulling naan and chicken tikka containers out of the bags. “That smells heavenly, “ Sherlock muttered offhandedly, sparing a quick glance over at John though not allowing the aroma to detract from his thoughts.
He began rattling off facts aloud, whether for himself or for John was unclear, but his words came fast, blurred together in their insistence.
“It looks to be of a similar sort to those found on Samoa but that’s unlikely as Davis didn’t have a passport and couldn’t have traveled outside of the-” Sherlock paused, hands to his temples, face brightening as he very clearly fastened onto a possibility. John coveted these moments, when a wave of brilliance would overtake him and smooth the lines from his face, light his eyes. He was akin in these times to a child on Christmas morning and it was a sight to behold; it made John’s heart hurt with affection and was the reason that he, along with Sherlock, craved new puzzles. “Hawaii! Perhaps a native plant.”
He looked to John for some sort of response, face still glowing with delight. Caught a bit like a deer in headlights, John realized he’d been so wrapped up in cataloging Sherlock’s facial expressions that he hadn’t been listening particularly closely.
“Of course you know indigenous Hawaiian flora, of course you do,” John confirmed, nodding along, though just barely following; still, he wore a small, indulgent smile on his lips. This had been going on for days and truth be told, it was a challenge for the doctor to keep the various aspects of the various cases sorted in his head. For Sherlock to become engrossed in a minor detail in a case was one thing. For Sherlock to become obsessed with a minor detail in a case that had been solved by Scotland Yard in the fifties was... quite another.
For Sherlock to be obsessed with said detail for the better part of the week was particularly excruciating. They had no cases on and as such, to quell Sherlock’s incessant texting and phoning, Lestrade had allowed him to select a few cold case files from the Met archives. To the confusion of both other men, he’d selected only one unsolved case but had chosen a half of a dozen folders from the solved archives, poring over boxes and boxes for hours until he’d been satisfied with his selections. And John discovered after a week in both Sherlock’s and the cases’ presence, that each incident had an aspect to it that didn’t fit, an aspect that didn’t quite make any sense in the connotation of the evidence.
Much to Sherlock’s delight.
For whatever reason, Sherlock had found this fascinating and had been sussing out the possible relevance of each of these elements, one by one. It had taken him six days to deduce the incongruent elements in the other five cases. He was currently embroiled in discovering the sixth. John thought it was a bit odd that he would be so obsessed with cases already solved, but having an occupied Sherlock was preferable to an unoccupied and potentially bored Sherlock, so he said nothing contrarian.
Still, the detective had delved into the sixth case with a gusto that surprised John in its intensity. John would not have believed Sherlock would have applied himself with such fervour to as seemingly pointless a task as this, then again, he was quite used to being proven wrong when in the presence of Sherlock Holmes.
He’d been to the London Horticultural Society and back several times to no avail. Each of these failed trips had resulted in a new ding in the floor, another smashed test tube, a strop, and Sherlock pounding about the sitting room like an annoyed child. Still, the strops were of smaller proportions than he might have indulged in if he had been bored and John accepted this as a small miracle.
Sherlock had taken to skyping with notable botanists and biologists around the world - putting his skill with languages to use while simultaneously causing John to be very envious - and had gotten only a few leads to further spur his research.
The leads he had gotten had taken him to this morning and the kitchen table, and every last available clean slide that happened to be in 221B. “A plant that flowers... indigenous to... it’s a possibility.” Sherlock dragged his fingers through his hair and made several notations in his moleskine; what looked like chicken scratch to John was likely highly complicated observations on the nature of the plant. “Then yes, it must be a species of...”
There was silence; John glanced over his shoulder to find Sherlock staring at him.
“That really does smell...”
John smirked and turned back to the counter, popping the flimsy plastic lids off of the containers. He pulled down two plates from the cupboard and began spooning rice onto each. He compacted a pile onto Sherlock’s plate, sneakily giving him more than he’d doled out for himself; he’d probably be found out and given a lecture on why Sherlock didn’t eat when working, but it was worth a shot.
Sherlock paced up behind him and glanced over his shoulder at the portions he was doling out, asking for a bit more biryani - with a belated ‘please’, John had been teaching him some things - and commented on the fact that he was fairly certain he’d narrowed it down to a locale. He didn’t even mention the rice, John noted, self-satisfied.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” John handed over a plate and then moved some books and papers off of the kitchen table. He joined the detective, who had surprisingly decided to wait for him to tuck into his food. “That you’ve narrowed it down, that this-” John gestured with his fork at the research detritus that was strewn about the kitchen.
Sherlock chewed and swallowed and shook his head, tearing his naan into tiny pieces and piling them on the right side of his plate. “Native species of this nature may well be extinct now.” The detective speared a piece of potato, going back to adorn each prong of his fork with a pea before scrutinizing it and popping the bite into his mouth. “I’ll likely have to get a sample flown in and that will take...”
Sherlock chewed around his scowl, shoveled another bite in and let John come to his own conclusion. “You know, if you just learned a little patience, wait no, I’m not even going to finish that sentence,” John laughed at nearly having taken the bait, shook his head as he chewed. “You have contacts who can get that to you? That sample.”
There was a pause as Sherlock dragged his fork through the sauce on his plate, metal screeching unpleasantly against the dishware. Looking at John from under his lashes, he gave a bit of a shrug. “Not as such,” he conceded, gloomily. “But I will, once I press the contacts I’ve already made. Though, who’s to say if they’ll be any help at all. Botanists who can’t deduce a species of plant? Perhaps they came by their degrees online.”
John scoffed and smiled, stood to retrieve the container of chicken and bring it to the table. He spooned more onto Sherlock’s plate before even asking. If he didn’t call attention to it, perhaps the man would simply eat it. “Fair enough, but remember that you’ve been speaking with botanists who are likely living in their geographical region because their specialty is for the flora in that area. And you said it may be extinct, right? That’s a pretty small subset of... botanists, or whatever.”
John didn’t want to seem too interested in what he was nearly certain would be a wild goose chase, lest Sherlock force him to participate in some way. His only experience with plants thus far was forgetting to water the ones at the surgery and giving modest bouquets to a handful of women and relatives over the years.
“I... suppose,” Sherlock conceded again, miracle of miracles, and a warm thrill ran through John’s belly at not only having managed to get more than one helping of food into the man, but to have actually landed a valid point that sunk in his overflowing and likely cluttered mind.
John smiled to himself and mixed the rice in with his sauce as the words came out unbidden. “Course if that fails, there’s always Mycroft.” It took him a moment to sense the gravity of his misstep; he’d ripped the pin from the grenade and there would be no shoving it back in.
The glare he received was the detonation and John’s shoulders sagged, all progress he’d made washed away with one mention of Mycroft. There were things he couldn't remember, that he had to reteach himself since Sherlock’s return. That was apparently one of them. “Forget I said anything.”
“Oh,” Sherlock growled. “I will most certainly try.”
John was still coming to terms with Sherlock’s return, never was that more evident than in moments like these. Moments in which Sherlock would lash out in an anger that John saw as unjustified and John had to hold his tongue not to hurl the hateful sentiments that welled up in him. As though Sherlock was not allowed his irrational anger because John’s was more plain.
It was absurd that after all of these months he still felt that way, still felt the raw sting of three years alone when the detective would rage about the lack of hydrochloric acid in the flat or that fact that no cases were on or they were out of the tea he liked. “Your anger has no place here,” John always had the urge to spit, “You’re never ever allowed to be angry with me again, because you left.” He never said it, but in the dark of his room in the late of the night, he thought sometimes that it was how he truly felt.
And he hated himself for it, just a bit. He hated himself for thinking that it would never be like it was before again.
They spent the rest of their meal in silence, stealing glances at one another every few bites.
After dinner, Sherlock retreated to the sitting room with his laptop, characteristically leaving John to the cleaning up. But John, not feeling up to the task either, simply rinsed their plates and cutlery and left them sitting on the counter next to the sink. “Sherlock. You’re an adult, it’s your turn and I’m leaving these here for you. To wash.”
From the sofa came a disgruntled huff of a response and John took it as good a sign as any as he’d been acknowledged. Shuffling to the loo, John shut himself inside and pulled his towel from the hook, draping it over the railing just next to the tub. He carelessly dropped his clothes in a pile on the toilet, checked in the mirror briefly and decided he didn’t need a shave until tomorrow evening.
After turning on the spray and stepping under, he finally felt alone enough to allow his mind to linger on a subject he’d been waiting all day to ponder over.
Recently, John had noticed that Sherlock had become more pliable, more open to suggestion. His time away - his time playing dead, John’s subconscious reminded him bitterly - surely could have altered him so viscerally that he’d come back a changed man. No doubt.
John had come to accept that Sherlock would say yes to meals and to requests that he take a rest. He accepted that Sherlock would now accompany him to the shop and stood just a hair closer than necessary when they were at a crime scene.
What he couldn’t accept so easily, what he couldn’t exactly understand, were the touches. Not the fleeting touches of before, to a shoulder, a bicep, occasionally the small of the back. He couldn’t accept at face value the touches to his brow as Sherlock turned to him before getting in a cab or along the back of his neck when Sherlock would sidle up next to him while he was at the refrigerator.
These were touches of intent, touches that spoke of affection. Face under the spray, John thought about the last instance, of Sherlock hooking his right pinky finger with his own in a cab to Shepherd’s Bush for no reason at all. He hadn’t let it go for a solid five minutes, leaving John to remain perfectly still and stare down at the held digit as Sherlock gazed out the window as though nothing at all was happening.
Though - he supposed - he’d been a bit more overtly demonstrative as well. Just two weeks ago he’d pushed the fringe out of Sherlock’s eyes after he’d risen from inspecting a body. No one had been looking but John hadn’t known that at the time - reaching out and smoothing back Sherlock’s hair just happened. The light that had jumped to Sherlock’s eyes in that instant had been all that he’d thought about for hours afterward, even as they had sat in Lestrade’s office piecing together the case.
And now, it was all he thought about as he shampooed his hair hastily, working fingers through the suds with little care. As he finished up he decided that he didn’t want to dwell on what any of the touches meant, not until it happened again. If he did, Sherlock would see through him in an instant; the careful current of affection that hummed beneath his skin and bones would crest and present itself and he’d never be able to hide it again.
John tamped it all back down, shoved it into the roiling little box in his stomach, away from the light; he was too knackered now and had to be up rather early for a shift at the clinic; it was no time to worry over what he felt for his flatmate. It was no time to wonder if the word affection didn’t quite do any of it justice.
Swallowing painfully, John turned off the shower and gave himself a moment, forehead against the tile as he composed his thoughts. Then, expeditiously, he dried his hair and body, left the bathroom in a rush of humid air and mounted the steps to his room.
Sherlock, in the living room, shouted at his laptop screen before slamming it closed.
And then some things don’t change, John mused to himself, heading up the steps and dressing for bed.
When he’d made it back down to the kitchen - hair ruffled and drying - to put the kettle on for his pre-bed cuppa, Sherlock was standing in the walkthrough between the kitchen and sitting room positively seething. John’s hand halted en route to the cupboard to retrieve his mug.
“...What?” he asked as cautiously as he was capable of.
“You know what,” Sherlock ground back, chin shaking with the effort of the pressure of his teeth.
John blinked. “No, I really don’t.”
Sherlock blinked back twice at him, as though upping the ante. “No one can get me a sample. No one knows... because it is quite endangered after all. Protected by the United States government you see. At least, what they have left of their government...”
Slowly, John pulled down his mug, not wanting to stir Sherlock into a frenzy although he had no idea where he was going with his explanation. As he placed a tea bag into the mug, the realization crashed into him, draining what was left of his lingering pleasant mood. “Mycroft.”
“Yes,” Sherlock ground his teeth. It was a wonder that steam wasn’t puffing from his ears. “Mycroft”
John slinked his way up to bed once his tea was done, leaving Sherlock to pace the sitting room in a quiet rage. At least it was quiet, John supposed. Still, for Sherlock to think that his casual mention of his brother’s name had somehow made his involvement a necessity - and somehow magically negating any information that any of Sherlock’s contacts had - was a bit much. John could tell, too, by the set of Sherlock’s jaw that he’d expected an apology.
An apology for mentioning his brother’s name.
Arrogant. Sod.
---
When John made it down to the kitchen in the morning, he had a face full of consulting detective before he ever really had the chance to open his eyes; he swatted at the taller man uselessly. Sherlock grasped his shoulders in damp palms and dipped his head so they were eye level with one another. “That bastard. Has not answered me.”
Eyes rimmed red, lips slightly chapped, skin sallow and papery; it was obvious that Sherlock hadn’t slept and with a disappointed scoff, John sidestepped him. “Haven’t even had my coffee yet, Sherlock.” He managed to pull down the french press and tin of grounds just before Sherlock appeared behind him, placed his palms back on John’s shoulders and spun him around.
They stared at each other a moment, Sherlock’s gaze searching, John’s annoyed. “He’s punishing me,” Sherlock claimed.
Rolling his eyes, John snatched at either hand with his free one and pulled them off of his shoulders. “For what? And when did you call him, anyhow? It can’t have been more than eight hours ago! The man does have a job and is is Monday morning. I know you hate to admit it but he does have a place in the British government, so perhaps he’s otherwise engaged.” John’s temper had run short, his words clicking in his throat as they usually did when he spoke with anger, too quickly.
Sherlock spun away, rattling off details about why he needed the samples and when and for what and John simply tried to pour the grounds into the press without spilling any or throwing the vessel at his flatmate’s head. Tearing about the sitting room, kicking papers about, Sherlock fretted; he knocked into the lamp but managed to catch it before it shattered on the floor.
In the kitchen, the doctor rolled his eyes.
John went about making himself breakfast, adding another piece of toast for Sherlock at the last moment. Slicing tomatoes to go along with the eggs that were currently frying in the pan (next to the bangers, of course) he hummed to himself, paying no mind to the man in the other room who was squawking at himself like a mad chicken. Angst-ridden, Sherlock tossed himself onto the sofa in a huff, crossing his arms vehemently as he kicked his feet up on the arm.
“Breakfast is almost ready,” came John’s needless call, he already knew what the response would be.
“Not hungry!”
Smiling to himself as he mimicked along Sherlock’s words, the doctor called back, “Don’t... give a damn!” He stirred milk into his coffee and poured a black cup for Sherlock, right alongside his. Taking a step back, he looked at the mugs, John’s army, Sherlock’s plain, sleek black. They couldn’t be more different, and yet there they were, side by side on the cupboard shelf.
He had to shake his head of the thought; how positively soppy and ridiculous. “Come in here and at least pretend!”
Surprisingly after a moment, Sherlock did as told, stomping into the room and standing behind his chair. John placed a heaping plate at Sherlock’s setting and did the same for himself, about to sit when the doorbell sounded. Both men raised their brows at one another before John - still clad in pajamas and his robe - resigned himself and headed for the landing. It took him a moment to make it down the steps, but when he opened the door it was to a smartly-dressed, stoic man who was holding an envelope out to him.
There were no words written on the heavy cardstock and John squinted at the envelop and then back at the man.
He turned the parcel over in his hand twice. “Is this for me, or...”
The man blinked once as his lips twitched in irritation. “Just open it, Dr. Watson,” and with that the man turned on heel, and got into a sleek, black car. The hairs on the back of John’s neck stood up as he walked it go, the question of who was behind it all but moot, now. He rolled his eyes at Mycroft and his techniques and closed the door with his hip.
Sliding a finger against the flap of the envelope, he mounted the steps back up to the flat.
Just before he entered he pulled out what was inside, pulled the flaps open and-
No.
...No...
John reread it twice before a carefully smile jumped it his lips. As he felt it curl his lips he immediately sucked in his lips and stepped into the sitting room.
The detective was in the kitchen, walking around the table; John briefly noticed that half of his piece of toast was mysteriously missing from his plate. “It’s utterly paramount that I have a sample within three days,” Sherlock rambled. “Anything outside of three days would affect the veracity of the experiment.” Hands flying wildly about his head, Sherlock paced in a tiny circuit, pausing only to snatch up the other triangle of toast..
John glanced back down at what he held in his hand. “Uh, Sherlock...”
Huffing, the detective suddenly hunched over his microscope, trying quite hard to make John believe that he hadn’t been heard. “For once I actually need something from him, and he doesn’t even bother to try!”
“Sherlock...”
“What could you possibly, at this very moment, need from me.” It’s not short, but withering, Sherlock at his wits end as he threaded his fingers through his hair.
“About the Hawaiian plant, or whatever it was. “John knew his face was a mask of disbelief, right side of his mouth curling into a shaky smile. In his left hand he held an empty, torn envelope. In the right, what appeared to be two airline tickets. “Mycroft says ‘Get it yourself.’”