A/N. As always I own nothing. (And in the context of this story, the mugs are used for normal mug purposes..)

Tea, Mugs and Feelings

Two mugs sat on the table, one striped, one plain. Water heated to the exact optimum temperature and poured into a teapot containing precisely three teaspoons of tea leaves (one for each cup, one for the pot). A splash of milk in each mug, it has to be the milk first. The tea is left to brew for five minutes.

John is watching Sherlock move round their kitchen, preparing the tea. It's a rare occasion that he is not making it himself and he relishes the opportunity to study Sherlock. He's been working with Sherlock for a year now and he's picking up his habits of close observation. He sits, quietly, and notes: the slight quirk of lips and crinkles round the eyes (Sherlock is happy); long fingers manipulating tea, pot and kettle carefully (this ritual is important to him); the gentle ease of his movements (he is relaxed).

Sherlock places the teapot in the centre of the table and takes the seat directly opposite John. John feels underdressed; he is wearing an old t-shirt, pyjama bottoms and his threadbare dressing gown. Sherlock is impeccably dressed in his tight purple shirt and crisp black trousers.

Sherlock notes John's concentration and his face lifts in a grin.

"You're staring, John."

John jumps slightly, this is the first time either of them have spoken for several minutes, then smiles back sheepishly. "Just… observing."

Sherlock steeples his fingers and stares right at John, light eyes piercing. "And what have you observed?"

"You're happy."

Sherlock leans back in his chair, tilts it and puts an arm back to brace himself on the worktop behind him.

"Yes."

They remain like this for several beats; eyes held, smiling, not breaking the moment.

There's a knock at the door.

"Morning boys!" calls Mrs Hudson. "I've got your papers here, I'll just leave them by the door."

Sherlock tilts his chair upright with a thud.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." He calls. Stands up rather abruptly and leaves the room. Returning with their armful of Sunday newspapers he throws the 'Weekend' section at John with a lift of his eyebrow. John is well aware that Sherlock judges his preferred read, but then Sherlock always appropriates the actual news section and he'd rather not argue with him for it.

Dumping the rest of the pile in an untidy heap on the table, Sherlock picks up the teapot and carefully fills the two mugs.

"Striped or plan?" he enquires of John.

"Plain."

"Obviously." Murmurs Sherlock.

John lifts the proffered mug and takes a sip. "Wow," is startled out of him. "You really ought to make tea more often."

Sherlock takes a gulp of his own. "Far too much hassle," he chuckles, "Why do you think I wanted a housemate?"

Silence again for a moment. There is no rush, no case that is keeping them up for days on end. John appreciates the break. He takes another sip and looks up at Sherlock. Runs his eyes over that familiar face. There is something about Sherlock today, some indefinable difference.

"Why are you happy?" he asks abruptly.

Sherlock puts down his mug in surprise. Feelings are not discussed at 221B Baker Street. Even when Sarah ended her relationship with John six months ago, nothing was mentioned. Feelings get in the way, they are not necessary.

John thinks he's not going to answer, but Sherlock leans back; he's still relaxed.

"Why am I happy?" he pauses, seems almost puzzled. "I haven't analysed my feelings."

"Maybe you should." John isn't even really sure why he's pushing this.

Sherlock runs one elegant hand through his hair. His eyes crease slightly as they always do when he's thinking hard.

"I have solved a lot of interesting cases with a minimal death rate. Lestrade is listening to me most of the time. I have a feeling that there'll be a new case soon. This is a good cup of tea." He works through it slowly, with care, but John feels a sense of disappointment.

"That's it?"

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. "Does there need to be more?"

"I thought, perhaps…" John shakes his head, but a look of enlightenment crosses Sherlock's face.
"Ah, our friendship?" he inflicts it as though it's a question, but continues straight on. "Is very important to me John." He stares across the table and John gulps at the intensity of the gaze. "Working with you is infinitely preferable to being on my own, and I find your companionship out of work enjoyable." Then he looks down and murmurs, "Is that enough to be going on with?"

John smiles and says, "Yes" and so it is, for now.