A Pink Apron? - Part One

[kaseykcnew]

SHERLOCK

A PINK APRON?

Genre: slash, general and whatever else you or I can think of that’s appropriate
Summary: It’s beyond confounding then when he walked up to me just after I’d got back from the surgery, wearing a pink apron, and happily declared that dinner was ready. Dinner? Him? Wait, a pink apron?
Spoilers: um... I don’t know, maybe the first two episodes??
A/N: Technically I've already wrote this and the next two sections but they were on my old account and I kind of deleted it didn't I, anyway, you can read this and the rest will be up later; okay, good, enjoy
Kasey



~
(John’s POV)
I think he grows tired of us you know? Of people and life in general. I mean, there are days when he’ll barely string two words together and when he does they’re normally part of some hare-brained plan he has about some new and questionable experiment he’s planning on bloody doing!
I don’t know whether or not he sees it but I do worry about him; boy do I worry. He’s a fully grown man whose hand-to-hand combat skills are brilliant and his aim with a Browning is rival to mine, but you can’t leave him alone in a room because he’ll do something that’ll cause an explosion; trust me on that one, and he can’t be left to his own devices because he’ll most likely die of malnutrition; once again trust me on that one.
It’s beyond confounding then when he walked up to me just after I’d got back from the surgery, wearing a pink apron, and happily declared that dinner was ready. Dinner? Him? Wait, a pink apron?
Who is he and where is the real highly-functioning sociopath I’ve come to partially know and completely love?
It’s beyond inconceivable but here he is waiting room me to sit down before he’ll sit at the dining table; not the little-desky thing in the sitting area, but the actual dinner table. I’m starting to get worried now.
I don’t know if this is one of Sherlock’s sick and twisted experiment to test my responses or if he’s genuinely trying to be nice to me; or it could be that the nicotine patches have finally sent him to high heaven and he’s completely stoned? It could be any of those I suppose; he is Sherlock after all.
But I still can’t get my head around the pink apron, and I don’t know whether or not that’s a good or bad thing.
“Sherlock?” I ask rather timidly although I’ll never admit that since I’m an ex-soldier and all; you shouldn’t be timid and afraid of a civilian. Well, unless they’re as certifiable as Sherlock and can fire a gun at the wall in the shape of an almost perfect smiley face without even looking properly.
“Yes John!” Sherlock exclaims and now I’m really really scared; he’s not looking at me with his look of ‘must-I-answer-your-mundane-questions-from-your-insignificant-mind?’ but it’s more a look of polite, and maybe a little bit too intense, curiosity that he’s giving me that’s making me want to be on the other side of the room.
But I’m an ex-soldier so I won’t make a tactical retreat just yet, I’ll let my natural curiosity get the better of me; damn my curiosity!
“Um, not to sound ungrateful or anything but... what the hell is all of this?” I say hurriedly looking between my fidgeting hand on the table top and Sherlock’s falling face. Oh damn it, I’ve hurt him.
I can see him hesitating now, it’s fleeting and most people wouldn’t have noticed it but I’m not most people; no, I’m the person who’s just hurt his feelings because my brain functions on a level way lower down than Sherlock’s does. Damnit to hell!
“I-” Sherlock hesitates again and I can now distinctly see the change in him; he’s closing off his feelings now and I just know that he’s going to answer with some intentionally insensitive and dismissive remark, “I was curious as to see the reaction someone as oblivious as you would have to the sight of myself preparing dinner; however you were late so I had to serve it instead of simply prepare it,” slight barb there; not my fault I had a patient that wouldn’t take no for an answer, literally.
That’s Sherlock isn’t it, and now he’s going to stand up, take off that bloody apron, drag me up and kiss me-
Wait. No. I don’t think he’s going to go that far, and he doesn’t which sort of disappoints me really. He walks off into the sitting area and throws himself onto the sofa, facing away from me. Childish? Definitely. Does it show how much I’ve hurt him? Yes.
There’s no-one else like Sherlock Holmes and I don’t think I’d ever want a cheap imitation of such a great man; he’s one of a kind and I don’t care if it makes me sound like a star-struck little fan-girl (or is it fan-man?) because I love him.
I love Sherlock Holmes. And I’ve just hurt his feelings because I’m average and boring.
Damn it to hell!

~
(Sherlock’s POV)
Oh I’m not even going to bother explaining something as mundanely obvious to someone who doesn’t even have the function to see anything beyond ‘oh... pink apron?’ but I must admit to you, you simple people, that I am quite worried of what John’s reaction will be to me wearing this... thing. I don’t know for sure but I do believe I am nervous, such a strange thing; do you people feel this all the time or is it fleeting? No! Don’t answer that! I don’t want to fill my head with such pointless information!
What do I care about everyone else? I am a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath so it doesn’t matter to me what other people feel. Except it matters to me what John feels because I feel about John... why is that? Why does he make me feel? I don’t feel, I’ve taught myself not to feel but he makes me. He makes me and I don’t think he even realises what with his simple, but admittedly quick, thoughts and his lopsided smile that makes me want to hug him and do other things that are inappropriate think let alone fantasise about! And his eyes... oh so very expressive but can they be cold and hard to understand when he’s hurt or in pain or angry with me; which is quite often actually, the anger part that is. I don’t intentionally hurt him you know? No you don’t know; why would you? You’re not me, you’re normal.
I’ve been watching for him through the window inbetween checking the food; I’m going domestic! Heavens! He’s late; he said he’d be back by now! Why isn’t he back? Has something happened? No, that’s a stupid, hasty and entirely emotional thought that is not rooted in any sort of certifiable theory. But that doesn’t stop me from feeling and thinking it. Damn emotions.... damn you John... I don’t like feeling.
But I did once; well a long time ago, before I met John, before I grew up. Before life let itself destroy me. Damn you too life!
Anyway, letting my feelings run away which is completely idiotic of me, and I can say that because no-one’s here to hear it and no-one’s here to mock me so ha, I should be focusing on the food. The food, I didn’t even know I had the capacity to cook let alone the patience to do such a mundane and typical thing; but Mrs Hudson was quite helpful with her direct orders, and I do mean direct, as well as the cook book and the ingredients she all but threw at me; honestly you’d swear she was trying to give them to me before I could change my mind. So impulsive, it really isn’t becoming of people.
I alternate between the food, which is almost done, and the window but I don’t see John; he’s not here yet, why not? He should be! I should probably send him a text but then he might come running and if he does and it’s only for dinner he might get angry; and I don’t want him to get angry. Heavens no! John isn’t as polite or as understanding when he’s angry; quite the opposite in fact. Especially when you make a comment about exploding dogs and such; he’s got a terrifyingly good aim with a 16th century-original book written in Latin. I learnt that the hard and painful way, of course I haven’t mentioned anything to do with explosions and such since then; I do value my life and mobility you know?
Another five minutes before I’ll have to dish this form of sustenance out, if he isn’t here then I’ll leave it to go cold and when he does get back I’ll be even more of an insensitive git, as he’s so quaintly put it before, than I’ve ever been and soon he’ll be on his knees in front of me begging my forgiveness and I’ll blackmail him into getting into bed with me.
Wait. No... I don’t think he’d go that far with me. I’m the freak of nature remember? I’m not someone who he’ll ever want to do anything like that with am I? No. He’s already corrected almost everyone who’s considered us to be a couple hasn’t he? Of course he has. He’s only my colleague, that’s safe for him, safe for me too but it’s not good for me. I want more with him. But he won’t give it so I won’t take it, even if I so desperately wish to. I was raised to be a gentleman; though I must admit I’ve never truly acted like one beyond not walking around nude in public. Though I suppose I could try that... I might get a few propositions perhaps...
Ah! The food! Heavens! This is your fault! Yes it is! Yours! Oh dear... it’s slightly burnt. Of course, that being said how on earth would I know whether or not that’s how it’s meant to look? I’ve never cooked a thing in my life; well except for eyeballs, fingers and a tongue but they were for scientific purposes only.
Oh! Oven mitts would be advisable the next time I try and take a tray made of metal out of a heated oven. Must remember that so that I won’t have to run my hands under the cold tap for five minutes before the burning reduces itself to a due throbbing; oh that’s going to annoy me, I just know it. And what do I mean, next time? There wasn’t even meant to be a first time! Why do I think they’ll ever be a second? This is just an experiment... yes.... mostly... sort of... well, it is now!
The front door’s just opened, it must be John; damn I must have missed him when I was battling with the food. Damn you food; you’ve distracted me and you’re already making my existence even more insufferable than it was beforehand. I can hear him loping up the stairs, but he’s lagging a little, almost like he’s tired or carrying something; I do so hope it’s the latter, I don’t want him to be tired at this early hour. Well, early to me; it’s only six o’clock. I need to dish out this food quickly, very quickly. Oh dear he’s about to open the door and these stupid blasted vegetables won’t get off the bloody serving spoon; why on earth do people need to consume these things? They’re so.... annoying. He’s walking in and he’s stopped walking now, he’s not talking; if I wasn’t still battling with these vegetables I’m relatively certain I’d notice that he may have stopped breathing momentarily. What’s he so surprised about?
Oh right... the apron. Yes well, I can understand that one at least. I’ll smile at him and see what his reaction to that is too. It should be fun; fun for me that is.
“John!” I declare happily, smiling widely at him, “dinner is served!” I move over towards him, he’s still staring at me like I’m an alien; not that an alien would look like me I have heard that scientists believe that any extraterrestrial life will look more akin to a bug and I am not a bug. I suppose I’ll have to drag him over to the table since I don’t think he has any inclination to move from the spot he’s currently rooted himself to in shock. God heavens John! It’s an apron! Get over it!
I steer him over to the dinner table, yes the real dinner table; Mrs Hudson told me in no uncertain terms that if I was to do dinner then I’d have to serve it at the dinner table... the wench. I wait for him to sit down before I push his chair in behind him, he seems surprised by that; I can’t possibly see why, I do have manners and I have done a stint in a restaurant before. Granted I had been trying to catch a fraudster but still...
I dive into my own seat and that’s when I realise I’m still wearing the bloody apron; oh well, it won’t do any harm to me. To John however it seems to be a bigger thing to overcome than the dinner is; he’s still ogling at it either that or he’s checking me out. The latter I don’t mind at all really; he need only ask and I will freely give him anything he asks for; except my violin. That’s mine. Though I could be persuaded to share with him if you know what I mean...
“Sherlock?” he says, he sounds weary; no weary isn’t the right word, he sounds more like a timid little child sounds when they’re asking a drunken parent something and they’re afraid of a negative reaction. Why is he so timid? What’s he afraid of saying?
“Yes John!” I exclaim happily as I look at him intensely, maybe too intensely because he’s fidgeting with his hand; a clear indicator that he’s got something on his mind that’s really bothering him and it’s something to do with me. What doesn’t have to do with me that bothers him I wonder? His nightmares obviously bother him, they bother me too because I can’t comfort him because I don’t want him to know I care; why am I so scared of letting him know that I truly care about him? Is it because of our enemies? I can’t class them as only being mine alone anymore; they’ve seen John with me so he’s a target too. Is it because I’m afraid of rejection from him? Maybe, it’s not like I’m open about how I feel and the fact that I care so it’s not like he’s going to immediately accept my attempts at comforting him is he? Well if he does then he’s either completely bonkers or he loves me... I’m hoping for the latter but I reason that it’d be the former of those two possibilities. Who could ever really love me? Be intrigued by? Yes. Be enamoured with? Yes. Be sexually curious about? Probably. Be in love with? No... I’m an insensitive sociopath remember?
“Um... not to sound ungrateful or anything but... what the hell is all of this?” John asks as he looks between his hand, which must be so very interesting to him, and me. Oh... I didn’t think he’d ask... I didn’t... think. I don’t know what to say to this; I don’t know how to react. I’ve never had to react to something like this before. Whenever I’ve tried this with anyone; admittedly not to this extent and not with these feelings along with, I’ve always known what to say because I’ve kept it purely as an experiment. A test of human responses. But this isn’t a test to me now... this is real... and I don’t have a bloody clue as to what to say to him.
“I-” I can’t think of anything, well I can but if I say any of that out loud I don’t know how he’s going to react to the spontaneous declaration of love from a sociopath; though I can realistically say, not well. I need to think of something to say; anything! Anything but my feelings for him! Damnit! Think! Think! Be objective; don’t feel just think, don’t be impulsive be analytical. Think.... I think I’ve got it, “I was curious as to see the reaction someone as oblivious as you would have to the sight of myself preparing dinner; however you were late so I had to serve it instead of simply prepare it,” I accuse him, there’s still a bit of feeling seeping through and it’s making my earlier worry come to the fore; but I do believe it’s tinged with anger at the fact that he was late. Is this what normal people feel? I don’t think I like it all that much.
He flinched. I made him flinch. Oh sure, it was minute but it was there and I saw it, and I caused it. My God... I feel... awful. I think I’m disgusted with myself; why does he make me feel like this!? Why!? I’ve hurt him... or does he think he’s hurt me? Well he has but I’m not going to tell him that am I? No. I’m far too proud.
I don’t want to be near him now, not now that I’ve hurt him; I can’t be around him, it’s not safe for my feelings. I’ll tell him otherwise. I need to get away from him; even if it’s only across the room. Still, the sofa’s better than sitting next to him where our thighs almost touch and I feel the heat emanating from him which is making my sexual-drive go hay-wire. I need to move. Now!
I stand and his eyes follow me; it’s almost like he wants something to happen, something... no. I can’t think like that, I can’t feel like that! I don’t want to ruin this partnership for sex! But... this isn’t about sex, well not just about sex... it’s about these other feelings that run far deeper into my shadowed and layered heart than any other feeling has ever managed to do for so many years.
I almost dive onto the sofa and I purposeful turn to face the back of it so that he can’t see my face which I’m sure is starting to falter and crack and show how I feel now. I can’t let him see... I... just can’t. It’s not safe... not safe...
I can’t let him know just how much I want to dive on him right now and do so many things to him to make him shout my name to the high heavens.

~
Would it be pointless of me to say; To Be Continued since I've already done the next section and such?
Um... yeah it probably would wouldn't it? Alright, well I've got to put the rest up anyway so...
Wait And See (:D)
Kasey

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