“You kissed me,” says John the next morning, absently, as he hunts for something edible for breakfast. He briefly wonders what it says about his life that a half-remembered sensation of his flatmate kissing his forehead doesn’t really seem that unusual next serial killers and eyeballs in the microwave.
He opens the fridge, sees the tupperware boxes full of entrails, and shuts it again almost instantly, stomach turning ever so slightly. “Oh god, Sherlock, really-”
“No I didn’t.” Sherlock is perched on the edge of a rickety wooden chair in the kitchen – because the verb ‘sit’ just doesn’t seem to cover the way he balances on the very edge of the chair, legs tucked under it and feet hooked around the legs at the back – sipping hot, sweet black coffee from a chipped navy mug. He blinks serenely at John’s disgusted expression and cradles the mug in his hands, steam rising fr