Chapter Text
Despite having been an avatar for well over two decades, going on three, John didn’t have a whole lot of knowledge regarding them other than what he’d learned from personal experience and his Dad’s old notebook. Simple things such as being kind to spiders, how to deal with worm infestations, and stranger danger among other things which seem more like basic manners and common courtesy in all honesty.
Then there were his brief encounters with other avatars such as the Corruption, the Spiral, and the Slaughter which were all rather pleasant, though each disturbing in their own right, given the circumstances of the encounters.
However, none of that mattered at the moment as he was now faced with the important question of his life at the moment: Should tell Sherlock about his nature? That is if the detective hadn’t already figured it out and simply chose to not mention it until John was ready.
Ever since they moved in together a couple months ago, John has been hyper-aware of both himself and the pesky mist that INSISTS on clinging to his person and the floor he walks on. Never in his life has he ever felt so tethered to the earth than has in these past months, not including his time in the army, and it’s been slowly driving him nuts! Not to mention his ‘feeding habits’ have been mucked up for a while because he doesn’t want Sherlock to get suspicious.
So naturally, he was bound to slip up eventually as one does.
It had been the morning after a rather thrilling case involving a series of murders linked to a supposed business deal-turned betrayal with all the victims being former colleagues of the suspect. By the end of it the living room was covered in all sorts of papers, books, binders, and the occasional pen and/or pencil. It had been a miracle that John even made it to the bathroom without getting an old bank statement stuck to his foot.
He barely managed to make it to the kitchen and set the kettle to boil when he heard the telltale shuffling of a certain detective rising from his long overdue slumber. John went about preparing breakfast, simple eggs and toast, when Sherlock finally appeared sporting his favorite blue satin robe, tank engine pajamas, and the worst case of bedhead that would earn John the sharpest glare if he were to so much as giggled.
Just as the podcaster had turned to greet him, Sherlock had stepped on one of the many stray pens that had been thrown amidst their shared exhaustion fueled investigation. John watched in slow motion as his friend’s foot slid back causing his body to fall forward, head angled dangerously close to the corner of the table. Without thinking, John ghosted across the cluttered space and caught him mid fall, using his hand as a buffer between the detective’s head and the table.
“Are you ok, mate?” Sherlock’s eyes were wide with sudden alertness as he was helped up and then immediately guided to sit down at the table. He watched as the doctor picked up the opposing pen that had nearly ruined their morning and tossed it into the living room with the rest of the mess. It wasn’t long before the detective had a cup of tea in his hands as he observed the way John carefully stepped around sheets and paper balls with a sort of apprehensive grace, nowhere near the swiftness he had displayed mere seconds ago.
Though what really caught the detective’s interest was the dull mist that licked at John's heels as he went back to cooking. While that would be normal on occasion for someone like Watson, noting the possible signs of a minor anxiety disorder. But the way it moved seemed unnatural for those experiencing loneliness and seemed to fade once John made his way over with a plate in each hand and an awkward little, “Good morning, Sherlock.”
“Looks like we’ve got a lot of cleaning up to do. Thank goodness Mariana is visiting her sister because I don’t either of us would survive her wrath this early in the morning.” John chuckled as he ate, glancing around the disaster that is their lounge.
“Indeed, as she would be wearing her bunny slippers at this time of day which have firm leather-based soles and hard plastic eyes.” said Sherlock behind his mug, hiding his grin as he thought back to when she had chased John around the flat with one of her slippers. He attempted to jump a rooftop while following Sherlock on a chase and nearly fell four stories. Not that the detective was spared either though rather than a shoe, it was a stern lecture.
“Thank goodness for that. Those beady eyes still haunt me.”