John Watson is a selfish bastard.

Holmes thinks this as he stuffs his face with a piece of toast, not regarding it at all after it had been slathered excessively with butter. Actually, this thought occurs to him everytime he starts stress eating, because he starts thinking about John with Mary, and that makes him think about how much happier John is, which in turn makes him wonder why John left their friendship for her, and this tugs at Sherlock's conscious to such an extent that he starts eating without thinking because it makes him feel better.

But why he is eating now, Sherlock isn't sure. Maybe it's because Mary had left John a week prior and the other man had yet to come see the detective. Had Holmes really done something so obscene that it had kept Watson away entirely for nearly two months?

Of course, Sherlock Holmes is too stubborn and thinks too highly of himself to approach the matter with John himself. So he is reduced to eating more than he is used to eating. And this combined with the fact that he has halted the intake of any drug whatsoever has left him with a larger mass than he is used to. He isn't overweight, not yet anyway, but he has put on a few pounds around the middle, and perhaps a tiddly bit in his thighs.

As if in answer to his thoughts, the bell at the downstairs door rings, and Holmes hears Mrs. Hudson beckon Watson inside. Sherlock starts up from his chair excitedly, but then realizing that he would perhaps come on too strong, he reluctantly takes his chair again. He self-consciously tugs his shirt and waistcoat down, pulls the napkin from where it is tucked into the top of his shirt, and swipes the bread crumbs from his personage. As he hears footsteps on the stair he snaps up the newspaper that had been brought to him and starts pretending to read, his eyes not truly seeing the words at all.

The door opens slowly, and Watson peeks his head in first- Sherlock doesn't see this action because the paper takes up his view, but he knows John well enough- and once he spots the detective the door swings wider and he steps fully inside.

"Holmes," Watson says, a vocalization he knows is useless because Sherlock is always alert, even when he appears completely oblivious.

Sherlock grunts to show he is listening, but has yet to lower the paper. He is still trying to fight back the surge of emotions he is experiencing, and knows his face would betray him.

John carries on, unaffected by his friend's inattention. "It's nice to be ignored," the doctor says as he takes the seat across from Sherlock. "Since the divorce it has been difficult to be around anyone, because they always look at me with pity or feel the need to express their condolences. People are taking my side in the split, since she was always away from home those last few weeks and they suspected she was an inattentive wife. But in reality, domestic bliss simply hadn't suited me, and I blamed her for it. I was the inattentive one."

A long silence follows his sad little story. John sighs with an air of irritation. Sherlock has finally managed to reign in his emotions, and his face has once again resumed its usual composure. He swiftly shuts the paper, meeting his friend's eyes.

"Oh, you're here?" Sherlock retorts with a false ring of bewilderment. "It's a surprise to see your face, considering I haven't laid eyes upon it in months."

John's eyes cloud with guilt, and he opens his mouth, probably about to apologize, when he sees something that gives him pause. He closes his jaw and stares at Sherlock with visible surprise.

"What?" Holmes asks, feeling suddenly very awkward. "Why are you looking at me with that face?"

Watson shakes his head, as if trying to rid a thought, and then smiles at Holmes with an almost smug countenance. "Nothing," he replies. "It just seems as though the tables have turned."

"What do you mean by that? What are trying to say?"

"It's just that- well, I had gained a bit of weight the last you saw me, but it seems you have stolen those few pounds from me. You look like you've gained a stone, actually."

It was true; Watson seemed to have lost those seven pounds, and perhaps even muscled up a bit. Holmes, on the other hand- well, his condition is on the vastly other end.

Holmes crosses his arms over his chest after a corrective moment where he wanted to cross them over his middle, but he knew that would give his embarrassment away quite easily. Watson may not have his observant, intellectual genius, but he knew the most basic of body language.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Sherlock replies indignantly, averting his eyes abashedly.

"I'm not saying it's a bad thing," the other man says complacently. "In fact, it's quite good, considering the poor eating habits you maintained before."

Sherlock glances at his companion, unable to place the tone in his voice. His eyes have started looking up and down the detective's body, pausing on the strained buttons of his waistcoat, his stomach, and thighs. The look in his eyes is hard to decipher, but if Sherlock had to make his best guess, he'd say hunger. Perhaps the sight of him makes his friend hungry, since weight is associated with food intake?

He offers Watson some toast, and the man's eyes snap back up to his face. The doctor accepts, and Sherlock calls up Mrs. Hudson to prepare some breakfast.

"I am making breakfast just for Doctor Watson?" the landlady asks, a telltale gleam in her eyes. She knows fully well that Holmes has already eaten his breakfast, and is only asking to poke at his recent excessive snacking.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock snaps, still looking at Watson as he says it. "I've already eaten."

"Very well."

She returns a bit later with a tray that has a pot of tea, a plate that seems to contain an entire loaf of toasted bread, and a large amount of butter. Obviously way too much food for one person, Sherlock realizes.

Watson pours himself some tea and Holmes refreshes his. John eats a single piece of toast without any butter as they talk, and the matter of his weight is taken entirely taken from Sherlock's mind as they begin to catch up.

It isn't until quite a bit later that John pushes the plate of toast in Sherlock's direction and then reaches for the teapot to refill his cup.

"Why don't you have some toast, friend?" Watson supplies. "It's getting cold, and it would be shame for all that to go to waste."

Holmes nods, and without further suggestion grabs up a piece of toast and smears it with butter. He eats it, and claims up another piece, and then another, but then he realizes that John is watching him closely. He smiles when Sherlock notices him, and proposes he have some more.

That hungry look is in his eyes again, Sherlock observes.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock demands. "Are you trying to fatten me up so you can have a feast of me for dinner?"

Watson appears alarmed, but almost as if he had prepared to look that way. "What on Earth are you talking about?"

"Why are you shoving this food down my throat? You have to maintain some ulterior motive from doing it. I am positively convinced that you are planning an act of cannibalism."

"I assure you, I am doing nothing of the sort. It is just good to see you with such an appetite, and I was taking advantage of it while it lasts."

"Then why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you want to eat me!"

The doctor really does look shocked this time, and then he looks flustered.

"I just-" Watson clears his throat. "You look great, you know."

"You can't possibly mean that."

"I do!" John realizes he had replied perhaps a little too excitedly. "I do, Sherlock. You look... really great, actually. Fuller. Softer."

It's the husky, sultry tone in his voice rather than his eyes that makes the usually quick detective finally realize what Watson is trying to say. He feels his face flush, and wraps his arms around himself, suddenly very eager to hide his body from the prying eyes of his friend.

Watson gets up from his chair, and Sherlock feels a rush of relief that he is leaving, but the doctor merely walks around the table, closer to him. He grabs the back of Sherlock's chair and pulls him away from the table, then urges him to stand up by patting his shoulders. Sherlock does, then turns slowly around, his arms still wrapped around himself, his eyes staring purposefully away.

Hands force reluctant arms down. They wrap around Sherlock's waist, pulling him closer, so he's pressed up against John, and then John squeezes Sherlock's sides assuringly, liking that he has something to grab onto.

Then John starts kissing him, just a peck on the lips at first, but then his tongue is in the other man's mouth. Sherlock is still being diffident, only kissing back shyly and still trying to pull away. He wants it, sure, but his insecurities are still prodding at his mind.

John starts unbuttoning Sherlock's waistcoat as they're kissing, with quick, fervent fingers, and then starts on the white shirt underneath, even though Sherlock places his hands uncertainly over John's own. John pulls back at last, looking down at Sherlock's love handles and the pudge of his belly, and Sherlock sees the hunger again in his eyes, but now he recognizes it as lust. He can't quite understand why John likes the way he looks, but it's more evident in his eyes than ever.

John's kissing down Sherlock's neck, across his chest, while his hands slide down to grab his plump arse, squeezing it and kneading it with his hands, all while Sherlock is trying to undo John's shirt. He reveals his taut chest and stomach muscles, and Sherlock slides his fingers appreciatively over them, remembering dolefully when they were like his own.

But John doesn't allow time to think about that, because suddenly he's steering them away into the other room, into Sherlock's bedroom, where the curtains are drawn away from the windows. He backs Sherlock up to the bed, distracting him with his roaming hands and starving kisses, until the back of Sherlock's knees hit the mattress and they both tumble over, John catching himself before he can land on the other man. He crawls up, gazing appreciatively down at his friend's body as he does.

John starts kissing his neck again, meanwhile undoing Sherlock's pants and trying to slide them down his hips. Sherlock presses his body up, trying to get more contact, and John takes the opportunity to slide the detective's pants off entirely and toss them across the room. He starts taking off his own belt, and shoves his pants down his thin thighs more easily.

He starts grinding against Sherlock while grabbing at his thighs, his hips, his waist, anything and everything he can get ahold of and it's all so wonderful because Sherlock's arms are wrapped around his shoulders and he's moaning into John's neck, finally enjoying it.

They don't get very far because it's too hot, and there's so much friction, and Sherlock moves one hand down between them to pump both of their erections together, and it's too good to last. They both come at the same time, slicking their stomachs with a warm, sticky mess.

John collapses on top of him, his hard body hugging Sherlock's curves for a moment, and then he rolls off, collecting the unmade covers over the both of them.

They spend a minute trying to catch their breaths, basking in the afterglow, but then Holmes has to open his mouth, to spoil the serene moment.

"I don't understand," Sherlock says, resting his face against John's shoulder. "You weren't interested in me like this until I gained these few extra pounds. What changed in your mind?"

Watson shrugs, putting his arm and Holmes' full waist and pulling them together tightly. "What can I say, the weight looks good on you. Plus, there's more of you to love."

Sherlock snorts. "Well, don't get used to it. I plan to shed these pounds through diligent exercise and a firm diet."

"Not if I can help it."