Sherlock

Sherlock had been sat on the couch for a solid 6 hours. Not because he was in his mind palace, or because he was watching a film. No, it was because Cluedo fell asleep in his lap at around noon and Sherlock didn't have the heart to move her.

He had also eaten lunch with John with her in his lap.

It wasn't much, but the detective had to admit that John was getting better at cooking, and if Sherlock was honest with himself, he actually did enjoy eating. The taste, the smell, the sharpness of his hunger easing. Everything that came after was horrific though. Feeling full, thinking of the calories, devising ways to burn it off, and the soul-crushing guilt that accompanied it.

So when John served him a very complex sandwich composed entirely of vegetables and low fat meat, he had to allow himself to eat. For Cluedo, John had said. Can't have her impaling herself on his bones. Sherlock surprised himself by laughing at that. He hadn't laughed in a long, long time. John seemed to realize that as well, and his eyes had welled with happy tears that made Sherlock feel like maybe he could recover after all.

So he ate about half of the sandwich, and almost out of habit, pushed his plate away. Yes, he was still hungry. No, he wasn't going to finish it. But he was trying, and that's what he felt mattered.

John smiles softly and takes the plate and half-eaten sandwich away to the kitchen without a comment. Sherlock appreciates that. He doesn't want a full 5 minutes of praise over eating half a sandwich, and he definitely doesn't want to be chided into eating the whole thing. Just a smile to acknowledge that John knew he was trying was enough.

"Would you like to watch a film tonight, love?" John asks from the kitchen. He had started saving the food that Sherlock didn't eat in the fridge so that the detective could finish it if he liked without having a fuss made over it. Another thing Sherlock appreciated.

Sherlock smiles, fancying the possibility of a normal activity that normal couples do on normal Friday nights. It was always so tiring constantly being the freak, the anomaly, that the concept of doing something as generic as a film night sounded heavenly. 

"I think I'd like that," Sherlock says, taking a moment to meet John's eyes and try as hard as he could to beam his thoughts into his boyfriend's head.

Thank you for the food.

Thank you for treating me like a normal person.

Thank you for loving me.

Thank you for putting up with me.

I love you. 

So very, very much.

John smiles lovingly, and Sherlock hopes to God that John could feel the love radiating off of him.

"What do you say, then? You can choose tonight, I've got a surprise for dinner." John says, winking at Sherlock. The detective can't tell if the fluttering in his belly was from the wink or from the thought of the words "surprise" and "dinner" in the same sentence.

"Can we watch a documentary?" Sherlock asks, feeling slightly sheepish about his request for some reason.

John's smile remains on his face, and he shakes his head in amusement. "Of course we can watch a documentary. What on? I'm sure you already know everything. Except that the Earth goes round the sun, but other than that, of course."

Sherlock feels a brief flicker of annoyance, but soon pushes it off. "I only know important things John, you know this. Regardless, I'd like to watch one on cats."

"Cats are important, then?" John asks in that same tone of amusement. "But not basic astronomy?"

Cluedo chooses this moment to yowl indignantly, and Sherlock covers her ears and says in mock-offense, "Not in front of the child!"

The ex-soldier laughs, and Sherlock has to say it looks good on him. Everything looks good on him, actually, but laughter especially.

"So you like her, and want to watch a documentary on cats to know more about her?" John teases.

"Well, it's not that I like her, it would just be irresponsible to not know how to properly care for her!" Sherlock asserts, feeling a little flustered at the realization that he is now what they call a "cat person".

"Whatever you say, love," John says, still looking so gorgeous in that shade of happy. "We can watch a documentary on cats. For educational purposes, of course."

"Thank you." Sherlock huffs, turning to tend to Cluedo, who had started rubbing her face on Sherlock's hand demandingly. John just smiles and finishes up in the kitchen.

***

John

The lights were low, curtains drawn, and Sherlock's head was resting in his lap, with Cluedo nestled between them, and for once, all felt right with the world. 

The documentary John had rented is playing, and it was tracing the ancestry of cats all the way back to Egypt, where the first domesticated cat is thought to have originated. Sherlock is paying rapt attention to the film, but John finds it hard to focus on the TV when his own beauty is next to him, and John is allowing himself to indulge in what he had always itched to do ever since he met Sherlock: run his hands through his hair. The thick, curly longs feel so wonderfully right in his fingers, and John feels like maybe, just maybe, they'll make it out all right.

Perhaps there was no "maybe" about it, actually. John rarely allowed himself to think positively at this point for fear of catastrophic disappointment, but things definitely have been on an upward trend. Sherlock had gained almost 7kg in the past 5 months, and was more consistent with meals, despite not eating much, and he had been clean from self harm, cigarettes, and purging for a solid 6 weeks. John knew it was dangerous to let his guard down, but he still felt so immensely proud of Sherlock that he thought his heart may burst.

Soon, John notices Sherlock's breathing growing slow and even, and it appears the detective has fallen asleep. John feels a rush of affection for him, not quite sure why, but there it was regardless. He really needs to start preparing dinner, but for now, he can sit with Sherlock until the documentary ends. 

And he did.

***

Sherlock

Safe.

That's the emotion he was feeling right now.

Safety, comfort, and calmness.

Sherlock had been trying to identify each new emotion that presented itself to him, and he was doing a pretty bang up job at it too, if he says so himself. Granted, dealing with the emotion was often a much more arduous task, but he still felt rather proud of himself for being able to identify  his emotions so well up to this point.

Being with John always inspired this particular feeling, which had only intensified as they became involved with one another, but he had never taken time to name it until now. Feeling safe hasn't really been a thing up until his more recent years, but he did rather enjoy the feeling. It was nice to know that for once, taking care of and protecting himself wasn't entirely up to him now.

While the documentary was fascinating, Sherlock couldn't help but submit to the wonderful sensation of John stroking his hair. If Sherlock were a cat himself, he would be purring up a storm.

Eventually, his eyelids grow heavy, his mind grows foggy, and the detective falls asleep.

And he dreams.

Lately, it's been all nightmares, no sleep. His body seems to be recovering, and his mind appears to be healing, but at night, all the monsters in the closet come out and devour his sanity. 

But not this time.

This time, he dreams of vast open skies, the smell of John's aftershave, the sensation of his fingers on his skin and the complete and utter lack of revulsion at the concept, the feeling of John's smile against his lips, all the great and wondrous things the past few months have given him. Safety and love and healing all wrapped up in the emotion that he has come to call joy.

For once, all was well in the world.

***

His dreams had faded, and he was in a comfortable limbo between sleep and wakefulness, just awake enough to feel the warmth of John next to him, but just asleep enough to not feel anything but peace.

"Come on, love," John murmurs into his ear. "The movie's over, and I'd like your help with something."

Sherlock stirs a bit, his mind slowly booting up and his feelings coming online. He felt rested and comfortably sleepy, and he rose to a sitting position and stretched, resembling Cluedo for a few seconds. 

"Alright, I'll do it," Sherlock mumbles sleepily. "What is it?"

"I'd like you to help me make dinner," John says.

Suddenly, alarm bells and klaxons start sounding in his mind, and the peaceful numbness submitted to a familiar panic. Nibbling at food from an unknown origin was one thing, actually making it with intent to eat it? That was terrifying. It's easy to pretend that calories don't exist when you don't know exactly what and how much is in the food. But when you make it, you're aware of every tablespoon of butter, every ounce of sugar, you are made intimately familiar with the food and then you're expected to eat it. Sherlock could feel a panic attack coming on, but he takes a breath, closes his eyes, and says,

"Okay."

That one word was like a load of bricks dropping off his chest, and his previously fear-heavy limbs were filled with an anticipatory tingling numbness. This wasn't going to be easy, but he has to do it.

When he opens his eyes, he sees John's face. He could see the worry and fear drain from his face, and he watched it be replaced with pride and just a tiny bit of self-satisfaction.

Sherlock's face twists into a scowl, "Oh, wipe that smug look off your face, Doctor Watson. I'm not your patient, you didn't "fix" me, I'm doing this on my own."

John just smiles in disbelief and shakes his head in amusement, which both angers and relieves the detective. Angry that he's laughing at him, but relieved that his sharp words didn't seem to hurt his boyfriend.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says quietly. Saying sorry was still difficult, but it wasn't quite like pulling teeth anymore. "I know you've helped me a lot, I didn't mean what I said."

John just smiles again. "Sherlock, I'm just laughing because even after all this, after all the hell we've been through in the past six months, you're still the most stupid, stubborn git I've ever met in my entire godforsaken life. It's just funny at this point. Sure, it used to hurt, but now I know that you know how much I've done for you, and that when you snap it's just because you're changing and you don't like it."

Sherlock still has a small scowl on his face, and he is well aware of the fact that he probably looks like some pouty, petulant child at the moment. "Fine. Are we going to cook dinner or what?"

John stifles yet another shit-eating grin before beckoning the detective into the kitchen. 

"Come on then. It'll be fun. I promise." He reaches out a hand to Sherlock, who reluctantly takes it and is pulled into a standing position and led into the kitchen.

"So today, I thought you might like something simple, like a Caesar salad." John begins.

A salad. That does sound good. Not too high in calories, but still tasty. Sherlock nods in agreement.

"Alright, love," John murmurs, almost as if to himself. He reaches into the freezer, past the bag of thumbs and under the frozen mystery substances, and pulls out some frozen chicken breasts.

"So, first, we need to defrost the chicken," John says, handing the package of chicken to his boyfriend. "Just put it in the microwave on defrost for about 15 minutes."

Sherlock gingerly unwraps the chicken and places it in the microwave on a plate, attempting to steal a look at the nutrition facts on the label. He doesn't get a clear view, but the first number is 1, and it looks like a triple digit number. So, a max of 199 calories. It's not too bad. 

It's just chicken. Don't lose your mind over it, Sherlock has to remind himself.

"All right, lovely," John comments, washing his hands, gesturing for the detective to join him. John takes Sherlock's long, slender hands in his own and washes them, lovingly stroking the side of his palm with his thumb, gazing at him adoringly. Sherlock smiles despite himself, and leans in to kiss John.

When their lips meet, everything else melts away as if it's the first time all over again. The first real kiss, not when John kissed him out of desperation when he was spilling his life story. Calories, carbs, trans fat, and kilograms disappear as they kiss, and Sherlock wants to stay like this forever. 

John eventually pulls back, his eyes half-lidded and full of pure love, staring at Sherlock as if he hung the moon. The detective was most likely looking at him the same way. John dries their hands, then claps his own together. 

"Right. So, now we're onto the salad itself."

Sherlock nods. He hasn't quit memorized the calorie count in most vegetables, seeing as they were all on his list of safe foods, and the nutrition facts are hard to read on the sly on the flimsy plastic encasing them, so he's flying blind for now.

John hands him a heart of lettuce, gently guiding Sherlock's hand as he chopped. Sherlock could have chosen to feel annoyed at the guidance; the man knew his way around a knife, but some part of him savored the touch and allowed it.

After the lettuce is chopped up, John leaves the detective to work on some of the strawberries and snap peas they were adding, while he washes some spinach and slices some onions. The two work in comfortable silence, punctuated by knives chopping and scraping against cutting boards. John begins to hum a tune that Sherlock didn't recognize, but finds himself swaying slightly to the beat. He's not really one for music, but anything that John does is worth experiencing.

"What song is that, my dear John?" Sherlock asks quietly, not wanting to disturb the calm, peaceful ambiance.

"Oh, I don't remember the name of it, I just heard it on the radio on my way to work this morning. I think it goes something like, cause all of me loves all of you, love your curves and all your edges, all your perfect imperfections...." John trails off, much to Sherlock's disappointment. He rather liked John's singing voice. "I don't know all the words, just the first few lines of the chorus, but I did like it. Reminded me of you."

"All of Me, by John Legend." Sherlock answers instantly, surprising himself with his unexpected knowledge. "I remember hearing it when it first came out a few years ago, shortly after I met you, actually. Kept thinking; hoping, really, that someone would love me like that. You seemed too good to be true, so I didn't bank on it. It turned out to be you after all."

John laughs quietly to himself, almost in disbelief. "Fancy that: Sherlock Holmes the hopeless romantic."

"I'm not a hopeless romantic," Sherlock snapped. "I just like the song."

"Whatever you say, love." John replies. "Now, help me cook this chicken and we can eat."

The detective and his boyfriend finish making dinner, and they sit down to eat. Sherlock has estimated about 250 calories for the whole thing, excluding the salad dressing, which he politely declined to when offered. Not bad. At least not bad enough to freak out over.

"I'm proud of you, love," John says between mouthfuls of food. "Cooking dinner, then eating it. Lots of progress. It does me good to see you healing."

"It feels good to me as well," Sherlock says quietly, focused on managing one bite at a time.

"And that's all that matters," John says decisively. 

Sherlock looks up to meet John's eyes. "That's all that matters," he affirms.

And for the first time in a long time, he meant what he said.