Chapter Text
John was starving. Apparently everyone in London was sick, and his shift at St. Bart’s became two, then three, and all of a sudden he realized he hadn’t eaten in two days. Sherlock had kept him running around London with a particularly spread-out case, so there had been no stops for food.
When John arrived home at 221B, he headed immediately to the fridge, ignoring the contemplating consulting detective tucked into the corner of the couch plucking at his violin. He ought to have anticipated a lack of food, but he still looked.
“Thumbs, blood left over from the head, that’s it.” John shut the refrigerator door and faced Sherlock. “You go do the shopping this time.” He collapsed into his chair.
The plucking stopped. “You always do the shopping. Why am I doing the shopping?”
“Exactly. It’s always me. I’ve had a long day, and it wouldn’t kill you to pick up a few things.”
Sherlock didn’t like this situation. “If you’re hungry we ought to go to Angelo’s-“
“Sherlock. Just go buy the bloody food.”
Sherlock sighed. “But I’ve almost cracked this one, if I just stay here a little longer-“
“So help me, Sherlock, I will dispose of all your experiments cluttering up the kitchen if you don’t go get the groceries.” Why was Sherlock being so difficult? “You can think and shop at the same time.”
“Fine.”
“Really?” Sherlock had caught him off guard. “Good.” John picked up the computer and began to access his blog.
Sherlock really didn’t want to leave the flat, but he also didn’t want to throw out all the hard work he’d put into his experiments. Grumbling as he exchanged his robe for his coat, he shuffled down the stairs, stopping at Mrs. Hudson’s landing. I’ll just ask her to pick up groceries, Sherlock thought. She wouldn’t mind.
He knocked on her door. She opened it a few moments later, hands covered in a light dusting of flour and a powder-covered apron. Baking. Bread, from the looks of it.
“Well, Sherlock! I was just making bread.” Knew it. “What is it sweetheart?”
Sherlock cleared his throat. ”Well, I was feeling a bit-” cough “-sick, and John’s asked me to fetch groceries-” cough “-anyway, and I was-” cough “-hoping you’d-“
“Of course Sherlock. You get to bed now, don’t want it spreading. What sort of thing should I pick up?”
Sherlock blanked. What in earth did John even want him to buy? “Just the usual.” He began to prattle off things he’d seen John eat frequently. “Bread, ham, mayonnaise, tea, milk, jam…” He trailed off, hoping Mrs. Hudson would know what to get. “I’ll pay you back-” cough “-later. Thank you so much.”
“Not a problem dearie. You go upstairs and rest now.” She hung the apron up where her coat had been and was off.
Sherlock knew she’d do it; Mrs. Hudson was too nice. He couldn’t get back into the apartment without causing trouble with John, so he sat on a landing crouched in a corner out of sight. He returned to the case in his mind.
He was so caught up in his work in that little corner of the landing that he didn’t notice when Mrs. Hudson brought the groceries into their apartment. I was supposed to intercept those, he chastised himself.
He walked into the flat sheepishly where Mrs. Hudson looked confused and John annoyed.
“Thank you for the groceries, Mrs. Hudson. You’ve just surprised me is all.”
“Alright then. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” Mrs. Hudson disappeared down the stairs.
John waited until she was out of earshot. “Sick? Really? You made Mrs. Hudson get the groceries because you didn’t feel like it?”
Sherlock tried to keep from looking embarrassed and stood up a little straighter. “You did interrupt me in the middle of important thinking.”
John was too clever for this lie. “No. That’s not it; you just have no idea how to do normal chores. Look,” John said as he sat back down in his chair, “I have three jobs. One is at St. Bart’s, the second is following you around with cases, and the third is taking care of you and this flat. And I’d like to be able to sit once in a while and not have to take out trash or get groceries or do laundry. I have to do that for you, but I shouldn’t have to.” John rubbed his forehead in frustration. “Don’t you see? It sounds like I’m talking to an eight year old.”
Sherlock did see the stress. He saw it in the occasional flinching of his psychosomatic leg, in the darkening bags under his eyes, in the wrinkles in his clothes from never having time to change. And, Sherlock began to feel guilt. He was unaccustomed to it, and naturally when he was uncomfortable with something, he wanted to close up and ignore it. But, looking at the weary state of his flat mate, he came to a different conclusion. “Okay. I’d need a little instruction first.”
John’s eyes widened. “Did I really just her that Sherlock Holmes needs instruction? Oh that’s good.” He stopped when he saw the embarrassment of Sherlock’s face. “We can start in the morning. In the meantime, I’m making tea.”