The Cure For Love :1:

The Cure For Love: Part 1: BBC Sherlock Slash fic.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.
Spoilers: This is a sequel. Do not read if you haven't read my story "Because I'd Die For You".

BANG!

The sound echoed off the walls of 221b, slicing through the silence of the morning. It permeated every inch of the flat and interrupted the dream of one Sherlock Holmes. He awoke with a start, heart beating frantically in his chest. When he registered the noise he immediately expected the worst, especially when he gazed down to see that the man who was usually beside him was missing. He panicked, not bothering to dress, and raced into the living room in nothing but his boxers. He quickly scanned the area for signs of a break-in or a shooting but found nothing of the sort. Instead he found John Watson in the kitchen, cleaning up a mess on the floor.

"Good morning, Sherlock," he said when he finally noticed the detective.
"Morning," he replied, feeling slightly embarrassed.
John had obviously just dropped a pan of viscous liquid, probably eggs in preparation to be scrambled. He felt ridiculous. He had been on edge for months, ever since he was shot, and it was running him down.
"You were making breakfast," Sherlock stated.
"I am making breakfast. A spill won't stop me," he replied, throwing out the soaked paper towels and placing the pan in the sink.
"Why?"
John shrugged. "I just felt like it. Nice outfit, by the way."
He looked down. "Right. I'm going to go put some pants on."
"You don't need to for my sake!" he shouted after him.
"Don't worry! I'm not!"

He padded back to his room and pulled on sweatpants and a cotton tee-shirt. The usual grogginess accompanied with first waking up was shattered by his unconventional start but he wasn't ready to lose the morning. He walked back out into the living room to the soothing sounds of sizzling and the shuffling of pans across the stovetop. He walked up behind John and wrapped an arm loosely around his waist.
"So, what are you making?"
"None of your business. You can wait until it's done."
"Fine. I just hope you didn't use anything on the top shelf in the fridge."
"Why?" John asked, looking up from the stove.
"Let's just say it would make the food you've made inedible. Well, not inedible but I wouldn't eat it since I value my life," he said unraveling his arm and picking up his laptop on his way to the couch.

He plopped down and stretched out, deciding to search the newspapers online for anything exciting. There wasn't anything and anything that seemed like it was, was a lie in one way or another. He sighed, closing the laptop and staring off at nothing. It was going to be a boring day, he could tell. It had been a boring month so far, nothing up his alley in the way of crimes. It was killing him.
"Breakfast is ready. If you want a place to sit you had better clear off some of your experiments from the table."
"Can't we just sit on the couch, then?"
"No. No table no breakfast. I thought you were using my old room for storing this stuff now."
"It's full," he whined, standing up and moving toward the kitchen table.
"It's full? It's been, what, five months and you've already filled that room?"
Sherlock gave John a look that reminded him of a child that was unaware he had done something wrong. John sighed.
"Just put it on an empty counter for now, or something."

He nodded, picked up the beakers and vials, and placed them carefully on a open countertop. John brought the plates to the small empty space of the table and set them down in front of the two chairs. Sherlock collapsed into his chair, examining the contents of his plate. Bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast with butter and jam. It was simple but it was better than any breakfast he'd eaten in a while. He picked up his fork and poked at it for a minute before actually eating it, but when he did it was better than he expected.
"This is quite good."
"Thank you," John replied with a bit of pride in his voice.
"It's not a compliment, it's the truth," he started but caught himself when he realized how harsh he sounded. "Er, but you're welcome."

He had been trying to work on being nice rather than blunt and factual. It was a difficult task but John was infinitely patient with him. It was a trait he was grateful for. Sherlock had already finished more than half of his plate in less than a minute when a faint but familiar sound reached his ears. He paused, listening, and when he finally recognized it he jumped from his chair and ran to his room.

He ran straight toward the end table on his side of the bed and picked up the sleek cell phone that rested there. He had a text and it was from Lestrade. It was strange and rare for him to text anyone but that didn't matter to Sherlock. That text meant the day was going to be exciting after all. He read it and his curiosity was, in fact, peaked.

I have very important news but I should tell you face-to-face.
See you in ten.

"John, Lestrade is coming over!" he shouted from the bedroom.
"Is it a case?"
"I don't know," he said returning to the table. "but it's bound to be interesting."