Hi, just a quick-fic about tea. Hope everyone likes it :)
Disclaimer: the characters in this story belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC, The recipe for tea is -to my knowledge- mine
Enjoy!


Sherlock's P.O.V.

I looked out over the London streets enveloped in early winter darkness, the only light coming from the orange streetlights and the reflective snowflakes shimmering in the meager light. The snow was rapidly increasing in intensity, building into a heavy blizzard. John once compared my flurry of words when I got exited about something, to the whirlwind of snow in one such storms.

Standing behind the window of 221 b Baker street, the notes of my violin solo drifting through the air, the whole scene had something otherworldly about it. I found a rare moment of peace in my music, until a whistling howl of wind broke me from my trance.
I realized there would be nothing peaceful or poetic to this weather for John who, lacking my skill at hailing cabs, would most likely have to walk through the blizzard to get home. I felt a pang of pity for my partner, his shoulder always ached terribly in such harsh weather.

By now I was no longer surprised when I felt sympathy, as I had in the beginning, I loved John not just for who he was, but for who I was when I was with him. With John I did not have to fear being myself, or being called a freak for doing so.

At the same time as I was thinking this, I was trying to think of something to make John more comfortable when he came home. Looking around I saw a picture of John with his mum.
John was 16 in the picture and already he had been wearing woolen jumpers ( though this one looked hand made) the picture had been taken only a few months before his mother died during the 8888 uprising in Burma . She was a passionate reporter and was in Yangon where the 8888 uprising started. She was killed during one of the ensuing riots. John was only 16 at the time and it had hit him hard; the first pain to set itself in his youthful features. The reason he became a doctor, a soldier; it was what had lead to his PTSD, his scars, his wounds; it is also what lead him to me.

His mothers death had been the start of the sometimes haunted person that was John Watson; but in this picture he was young and happy.
Looking at this beautiful photo ( I'm not overly fond of the things in general, but the joy that radiated off this particular picture stirred even me) I thought of something that would certainly cheer John up when he came home, a cup of his mothers' tea.
I had more then once noticed the doctor, after an especially tiring day, divert from his usual cuppa and enjoy this special treat. Whilst making said cup of tea John would always glance fondly at the image of him and his mum, leading me to deduce it was something his mum used to make for him when he was a child.

I looked at the clock, ten minutes till he got home, perfect. Walking to the kitchen, I went through the tea-making routine: get kettle, check kettle for harmful substances, walk to sink, check sink, turn on tap, check water, fill kettle, check stove, put water on to boil. While I was waiting for the water to boil I got out John's favorite mug ( checking it first of course, then giving it a rinse for good measure) and grabbed a teabag. I used the Lady gray rather than the Earl gray he usually drank and added one teaspoon of sugar instead of his usual two, forgoing the milk entirely I added half a teaspoon of cinnamon to the mix.

By now the kettle was whistling merrily and I poured the hot water into the cup. I stood watching as the mixture darkened progressively, stirring at intervals to get the right mix.
Just as I lifted the teabag out of the mug and gave the whole drink one last stir for luck, a key clicked in the lock and opened to reveal a very cold looking John.
My partner plopped ungracefully down onto the couch, shrugging off his jacket and kicking off his shoes in an uncommon show of untidiness. I headed towards him once he was sitting, noting on my way over, the sweet scent circling up from the steaming mug, if I wasn't me I'd say it smelled like Christmas. John looked up at me as I approached, smiling thankfully at the hot drink in my hands. He gratefully sipped the steaming liquid before turning to me, a look of amazement on his face and in his honest blue eyes. "How did you..." he started, then reconsidered "don't worry... Thank you." I smiled and sat down. "it was nothing really, I just thought you'd be cold and tired so..." I shrugged, trying to seem casual, but John knew me well enough to know that this small gesture from me, was like a lengthy declaration of love from anyone else; rare and probably more honest than most of such decelerations were.

Having finished his tea he leaned over and brushes his lips against mine. Before I succumbed to the kiss entirely I noted that the tea had tasted like Christmas as well.


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