John sighs irrelatively as he looks at Sherlock Holmes, who is sitting on the floor with his closed eyes and crossed legs, back at their fridge. An empty fridge.
"Sherlock! We've run out of food."
John closes his eyes. "Yes??I am hungry!"
"Cook something." The calmness in the detective voice makes John even more angry.
"Why on Earth, it is me, who always cooks??" He shuts the door of the fridge jerkily, making the whole thing shaking slightly. "When was the last time when you've cooked??" John walks to the living-room, his own stomach accompanying him.
Sherlock opens eyes and looks at John from his sitting position. "Remarkable, how hunger influences on you. When you are not hungry." He titles his head. "You are like a fluffy, little kitten. But now, when our fridge's become empty, which is absolutely not my fault, you've turned into a…Evil maniac."
John stares at Sherlock, forgetting to make an angry expression.
"You've called me a kitten."
Sherlock sighs. "I said that you looked like a kitten, not that you were a kitten."
John reminds quite for a moment. "That's not a point. You must cook."
The detective yawns and then glares at his friend. "Why?"
"What do you mean by why?? Because you never cook!" John collapses on the armchair. "Oh, yeah, I've forgotten. You do not know how to cook." He chuckles quietly. "Great Sherlock Holmes is ignorant in the question of cooking…"
Sherlock narrows eyes. "Is it a challenge?" he stands up from the floor and slowly comes to John, without blinking. "Do you really want to have a bet with me, John Hamish Watson?"
John thought that right now Sherlock looks really impressive: dark-grey eyes with a challenge flame in them, tangled curled hair, tall and skinny figure and a hoarse voice…
"I can cook. But the only one reason why I don't do that is, because I have you…"
"So I am your own housekeeper??"
"…and I want impressing you by going with you to the restaurants, rather than dull eating at home."
Second time by this evening John's become absolutely stunned. Sherlock stands in front of John for some long moments then turns around and walks away from the room.
Lestrade, tell me that you have a case. I am tired of the tangled relationship between my brother and our lovely doctor.
No, I am sorry. I have only a robbery, which just now Anderson has successfully solved. What has happened to this world…
Then I have to mute my CCVI cameras on 221b.
Don't judge them, they are lovely
John rubs his cheek, still amused a bit, but then his stomach makes a pitiful noise. "Oh, for Christ's sake…" he stands up and quickly walks to Sherlock's room.
"Permission to enter?" he opens the door a bit.
The detective lies on the bed without any emotions on his face.
"Let's have dinner."
"Oh come on, Sherlock." He makes a few steps and sits on the edge of the bed.
The detective's gaze lazily travels and stops on John's face. "I want a crime."
John smiles. "There will be. But." He pauses and watches his friend very carefully. "After we eat."
Sherlock sits unimpressed.
A sigh and a nod.
John laughs softly and grabs Sherlock's hand. "Come on."
All happens in a few strange, probably the strangest seconds in their life.
As John's fingers touches Sherlock's wrist, the detective pulls John closer, fear dancing in his eyes, but adrenalin has already become to run down his blood system, not allowing him to stop. Warm body presses against detective's own. Strange butterflies appear in his stomach.
Wide opened eyes of John and then his lips feel a touch. So slight. Never John has seen Sherlock so uncertain. The touch tastes like strong black tea, red apples juice, cinnamon, milk chocolate. The touch feels like a spring sun, slightly cold, but no doubtfully going to become warmer. The touch forms the feeling, both of them never have felt. Like a jump from the high when you have an insurance that you will be caught, like flying in the dream, knowing exactly that you will not fall, like… Like two souls, the most unique in the whole space and time have connected by the tips of the lips.
Like Sherlock kissing John.
Sherlock whispers in John's ear, feeling softness of his hair. "Who is the last – that one pays."
Sherlock jumps out of bed and runs to the living-room. John sits without movements for a second.
"HEEEY??!!" he runs after him, laughing.
For England's and Queen's sake, give him a case
I don't have it!!What's up, btw?
My brother is such a fool. To spoil such a charming moment. How John can even manage to stand him?
You are spying while they were…What were they doing?
Do you have photos??