Some fic to ease the pain 

In which John is suspicious of Sherlock’s behavior, and general fluff ensues.

John Watson had just settled down on the park bench with his lunch and newspaper when his phone buzzed from somewhere within the depths of his pocket. It was a sound not unlike that of a disgruntled hornet, and about as welcome. He sighed because, well, he already knew what it was going to say, didn’t he, and he supposed it had been foolish to expect to have a quiet, uninterrupted afternoon. 

By the time he had folded up his newspaper and set it down beside him another text had come in. Pulling out his mobile, he read:

Please come at once. -SH

Emergency. -SH

John was less than impressed. The last time he had received such dramatic messages he’d raced back to Baker Street, nearly getting himself run over in the process, only to find that the time had gone off on the washing and Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to figure out how to work the dryer.

What’s the emergency? -JW

A moment passed, and then a response.

Fire. Murder. Blood. Famine. Tigers. Emergency. -SH

As he’d suspected. Well, this time John was not going to give Sherlock the pleasure. The memory of Sherlock’s smug face when he’d turned up at the flat, out of breath and desperate, only to be directed toward the soggy mass of clothing that Sherlock had so helpfully deposited on the floor in front of the washer was enough to settle that.

Give the tigers a few of those dead rabbits you’ve been keeping in the breadbox, that should appease them. -JW

This time, his mobile’s responding buzz seemed to have a distinctly annoyed tone to it.

Those are for an experiment. Come home at once. -SH

After I finish my lunch. -JW

There was no reply to that, and John could perfectly picture the sulking pose that Sherlock had undoubtedly assumed, sprawled out over the couch in a tangle of long limbs.

And if John finished up his lunch quite a bit quicker than usual, well, it definitely didn’t mean that he was eager to get home and see it in person.

Sherlock was indeed spread out over the sofa, but lept up as John entered the flat, giving him that brief head-to-toe lookover that John had come to accept as standard greeting. 

“You’re back. Excellent. How was your sandwich at the park?”

“How-” John started, then thought better of it. “You know what, never mind. What’s your big emergency, then? Toaster stopped working? Can’t find your scarf, maybe?”

Sherlock waved his hand through the air as though physically dismissing John’s remarks.

“No, no, nothing like that.”

Sherlock was practically vibrating with self-satisfied energy. He always seemed to exude an air of general smugness, but this was different somehow, and John was instantly wary of anything that could make Sherlock Holmes so thoroughly pleased with himself.

“All right, then why did I come all the way from town?” Better to get whatever this was about over with as quickly as possible.

 A wide smile broke out across Sherlock’s face, the sort usually reserved for deductive epitomes or fascinating new murders.

“I have something for you,” he declared.

“You…what?” But Sherlock had already dashed off into the kitchen, his dressing gown billowing out behind him like a small cloud of blue smoke.

Amused, and more than a bit puzzled, John leaned back against the wall as Sherlock puttered around near the stove, doing God knew what. This was…unusual, to say the least. Neither John nor Sherlock were particularly inclined toward gift-giving. Sherlock had given him something for Christmas, but John suspected that the jumper, garish red and patterned with a series of frolicking kittens, had been intended as less of a genuine present and more of a general statement on how Sherlock viewed his wardrobe choices.

So when Sherlock returned with a steaming mug in his hand, John was understandably dubious.

“This, uh, isn’t drugged is it?” he asked as the cup was thrust toward him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, that was one time. Surely not enough to elicit a life-time suspicion of every beverage I hand you. Drink.”

“Once was plenty,” John muttered, but took a tentative sip none the less. The tea certainly tasted untainted. In fact, it tasted incredibly familiar.  He took another drink, then looked up at Sherlock, who was clearly waiting for his reaction.

“Hold up, this….” He cleared his throat, confused, then started again. “This is my favorite tea.”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, eyebrows raised as though waiting for John to reach the next conclusion. 

“But you can’t get this anymore, the manufacturer  discontinued it.” 

“As you told me two months ago. You were rather put-out about it, as I recall.”

John still wasn’t quite following, which seemed to be a depressingly common feeling in his interactions with the consulting detective.

“But then how did you-“

“Well, it was simple enough,” Sherlock interjected, eager. “Once the manufacturing facility down in Whitstable believed I was there to do an official inspection they were more than happy to release the ingredient information. Some of the particulars weren’t available in Britain anymore, unfortunately, but I was able to synthesize them with just a bit of—”

“Hold on,” John said. He was trying to hold back his incredulous grin but imagined he was failing quite spectacularly.

“That’s why you took the train to Whitstable last month? And all this time you’ve spent at the lab this week…synthesizing tea ingredients?”

“Well…yes.” For a a few moments Sherlock’s eyes seemed to land everywhere but John’s, his gaze flicking from the window, to the sofa, to the mug of tea, and then back to the window again.

“Do you…like it?” he finally said, a little gruffly. “I can rework the ingredients ratio, if you’d like, or-“

“No,” John blurted out, a little louder than he’d intended. 

“No,” he repeated, softer this time. “It’s good. Great, actually.”

“Ah. Good.” Sherlock said, finally turning those intense blue eyes back toward him, and damn it all if John didn’t feel a sudden blush creeping up from below his collar.

“Would you, ah, would like to have a cup as well?” he asked. “With—with me?” Good Lord, he really needed to pull it together. For God’s sake, he’d patched together half-dead soldiers in the middle of a battlefield, surely asking his flatmate to share a cup with him wasn’t as stressful as all that.

He took a deep breath, then gestured toward the sofa. 

“Watch some telly, maybe? There’s a new mafia documentary on.”

“Sounds dreadful,” Sherlock snorted, but the slow, pleased smile that swept over his face was enough to belie his words and tone.

Tea in hand, John settled down onto the sofa and flicked the television over to BBC1. After procuring his own mug from the kitchen, Sherlock sat down beside him and immediately began a running commentary about how it was obvious which crime syndicate had ordered the hit, didn’t they notice the scuffs on the victim’s jacket?

And if their shoulders touched more than was strictly necessary, and even if John’s hand eventually came to rest on top of Sherlock’s knee, well. John supposed that having his afternoon plans interrupted hadn’t turned out quite so bad after all.