Sherlock is not given to sentiment, it is for fools and the weak minded but for John, Sherlock is willing to try. So the table is carefully cleared, the refrigerator has been rid of the most noxious of his experiments (he admits that cataloging the effect of a sulfur solution on decaying cartilage was perhaps not worth the resulting smell) and he has even made a cursory attempt at cleaning the rest of the flat. John will return in approximately ten minutes. Sherlock puts the kettle on for tea.
It is not a special day. Not an anniversary (which are dull and arbitrary anyway. Is what they share any less valid on one date as opposed to another? Ridiculous.). But it has been just over six weeks (six glorious weeks, two brilliant days, and four utterly fascinating hours) since John and Sherlock had first fallen into bed together. Six weeks of touching and tongues and lips and closeness.
They haven't talked about it. They never talked about their previous arrangement either. It was simply understood, cemented after that first case, that first shot in the dark. Words are unnecessary between them. Obviously.
The kettle whistles. Sherlock hears John's step on the stairs. The sound fills Sherlock with a burst of smug satisfaction. He'd done that for John, taken away that limp, given him a life unencumbered by a cane. That even tread? That's Sherlock's.
John bypasses the kitchen with a distracted greeting, undoubtedly eager to rid himself of clothes that smell of disinfectant and illness. Not unusual. But by the time John reappears, the tea Sherlock has painstakingly prepared (John's with a ridiculous amount of milk, Sherlock's with what he refuses to admit is a ridiculous amount of sugar) is cooling and the shower has run.
Sherlock turns to find John wearing the shirt he believes brings out his eyes (it does), his hair styled (a mistake, slightly ridiculous), and smelling faintly of cologne.
John has never felt the need to dress up for him.
John is going on a date.
Sherlock feels the incipient smile slide from his face. "You've a date," he says, and immediately regrets it. He's always hated stating the obvious.
John grins. It is impossible not to notice how it changes the man's entire bearing. "About time, yeah? I was beginning to think we'd have 'make do' forever." He laughs and claps Sherlock on the shoulder.
It feels like some strange, small death is overtaking him; closing his throat and pushing unbearably through his chest. This is worse than the pool. Worse than when he'd thought John betrayed him, different from thinking he'd loose John forever. This is having everything and finding out it was nothing. This is being wrong.
John reaches past Sherlock, (so tantalizingly close and everything Sherlock is no longer welcome to) and his hand (steady, always steady now, thanks to Sherlock) closes around his mug. "Cheers, mate!"
Half the too milky, now cold tea disappears in one long gulp and the mug is set down. John strides for the door, shrugging into his coat. He favors Sherlock with another breath-stealing grin and a wink. "Don't wait up."
The flat is silent around Sherlock. He folds himself onto the sofa, eyes closing, fingertips pressed to his lips.
Sherlock is not given to sentiment.
Sherlock is a fool. Obviously.