Archive of Our Own ^beta

John Watson brushes his teeth with the enthusiasm of a man who has spent too much time in gritty desert sands. He stands in front of the bathroom mirror for an exact two minutes seven seconds three times a day - except for when he's at work, and there he keeps a pack of those trendy disposable mint flavored pics in his desk drawer - and hums happily to himself as he scrubs paste to a literal froth. He spits, gargles, spits again, then places his cherry-striped tooth brush back into the holder.

"Sherlock," he says, drawing down blonde brows into a small frown. "Must we do this - whatever this is - every time?"

"Not every time, John," answers Sherlock from where he's perched on the toilet lid, wearing only his dressing gown and a pair of soft pajama bottoms, chin propped on one knee. "That would hardly be feasible. Don't be an idiot."

"It's not on," John declares. "My teeth bloody very well don't need to be creeped at first thing in the morning, every morning. From now on I'm locking the bloody door."

He strides out of the loo, huffing about boundaries, personal property, and proper oral hygiene. Sherlock hesitates only an instant before he plucks John's tooth brush up and secrets it in the pocket of his dressing gown. Later in the day, just off reconnaissance turned car chase turned back alley brawl, and having completely forgotten the morning's conversation, John will wonder out loud whether he's somehow accidentally binned the brush, and after some muttering he'll nip off around the block to Tesco for a replacement.

John leaves a stippling of small blond and gray hairs on his pillow case. Sherlock selects one or two prime specimens once a week and uses tweezers to pluck this evidence of John's DNA from cotton, tucking them safely away in a small plastic bag labeled "Evidence". Hudders discovers Sherlock at it one fine Monday afternoon when John's at the clinic. She's meant to be putting milk and bread away in the fridge but she's come up the stars to complain about the moldy cheese in the salad crisper, and Sherlock's too busy running his magnifying glass over John's pillow to hear her on the steps.

"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson says from the doorway. "What on earth are you doing to poor John's bed?"

"Maintenance," Sherlock snaps. He feels a blush rising on his cheeks so he refuses to turn around.

"Looks a bit sketchy to me, Sherlock," complains Mrs. Hudson. "Running your hands all over his pillow like that. What would John say?"

"Get out!" Sherlock snarls.

She makes a sound like a stepped on cat but because she's family she leaves him alone with the indignity of his desperation.

John's jumpers won't do. John would certainly notice if one went missing; he's only got the four, after all, and even John's not so dense as to assume he's accidentally binned ugly knitwear. John's pants won't do, either, although Sherlock roots about in that particular drawer for longer than strictly necessary, enjoying the colors and textures and smells of this most intimate part of his flatmate. Then he thinks what John might do if he discovered Sherlock drooling over his Y-fronts and closes the dresser drawer with a snap. 

Sherlock settles on socks. He selects a fluffy pair that John reserves for winter nights when the boiler goes out and steals them away to the John Shoebox he's taken to keeping under his bed. The socks are clean, so not strictly useful, but he rolls them into a neat little ball anyway and tucks them gently next to the candy-striped tooth brush and the evidence bag of hair clippings. His collection is growing nicely. He wonders why he doesn't feel more satisfaction and decides it's because there is still too much empty space left in the cardboard box.

Blood was really a lot to hope for but it's Christmas on a Thursday in July. John breaks a wine glass during washing up one evening when they've both had too much to drink and cuts his thumb quite badly. Sherlock runs for the first aid kit. He's a bit ham-handed and muzzy with Merlot but he manages to put pressure on the slice while John sits in his chair with his head between his knees. John alternates between cursing and giggling. His most vital fluid stains Sherlock's sleeve before they get the bleeding stopped.

"Not as deep as it looks," John says, "but fuck that hurts. Sorry about - " he lists a little to one side as he waves his good hand " - your shirt. I'll pay the cleaning bill, of course."

"Of course," agrees Sherlock. He rubs his own uninjured thumb across John's wrist in benediction. John blinks. Sherlock retreats. They stagger off to bed, full of affable good cheer, and Sherlock adds his shirt to the box beneath the bed.

In the morning he'll take it out again and touch his tongue to the bit of John turning brown on the cuff.

John has a cardboard box under his bed, too, but it's filled to brimming with more mundane sentiments - photographs from his childhood and his university days, his discharge papers, sports clippings torn from the newspaper, Harry's banns. It's at least a year before Sherlock's brave enough to actually take something from John's box. It's difficult to choose from so many snippets of John. In the end he takes an old Polaroid so faded John's young face is barely discernible among the group of grinning rugby players knelt around a large silver trophy. From the age of the film and John's frankly atrocious hair cut he must be no older than 13 in the photo, but his smile is wide and white and Sherlock has never, in the years he's lived with John Watson, seen his flatmate so completely happy.

Sherlock presses the stolen Polaroid between squares of expensive UV shield before he hides it under his bed.

***

"Sherlock," says John, wandering out of Sherlock's room with the old shoebox in hand. He's naked but for Sherlock's second-best dressing grown and looking thoroughly rumpled after a Sunday morning spent lazing about between Sherlock's sheets. "What's this?"

Sherlock shoots John an appreciative look from beneath his lashes. He's so busy enjoying the way his love bites have turned John's collarbone into a sunset of pink and purple that it takes him a full fifteen seconds to cotton on. Then freezes, spatula in hand, the sausages he's been preparing for breakfast completely forgotten.

"Oh," he says, blinking rapidly. "That."

"Yes, this." John sets the box on the kitchen counter. He blows dust from the lid. "I was digging around for my pants on the floor and chased them under the mattress and - well," he hesitates, clearly uncertain of protocol. New relationships were such delicate things, even when that new relationship was with your best friend of over a decade. "I only wondered - it's not your...kit...is it?"

Sherlock arches a brow. "Drugs, do you mean, John?"

"I mean, I know perfectly well you're clean, have been for a long time now." John has the grace to look abashed. "I just - "

Sherlock remembers to nudge the sausages before they burn. "No. Go ahead and open it."

John opens the box with a reluctance come of living with a daft flatmate for too long. Sherlock tries to deduce whether John's expecting decomposition or mummification or soil samples but John's face is too difficult to read.

He stairs into the shoebox, expressionless. Then: "Sherlock, are these my old alpaca socks? I thought I'd lost those ages ago."

"And your toothbrush, DNA samples, favorite tea spoon, a few photos, finger nail clippings - " Sherlock waves the spatula. "Shall I go on?"

It's John's turn to blink. "These must be years old. Whatever for?"

Sherlock shrugs. He won't be ashamed. After all, in the sliding scale of domestic crimes, stealing your best friend's used biro barely rates.

"For a long time," he explains, "those were the only pieces of you, John, that I allowed myself." He swallows, surprised by the glint of sympathy in his lover's eyes. "Doesn't matter, really. Because it's so much better now."