Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
A/N: Just a harmless bit of fluff! Written for a prompt on the kink meme.

John Watson has done a good many things in his life that would terrify most people. He's got through medical school. Invaded Afghanistan. Woken up to find that he's shared his sleeping space with a camel spider. Got shot. Lived with Sherlock Holmes. And through it all not much has managed to faze this army doctor, who takes most of what life throws at him with a wicked little grin and a deft hand at a crack shot.

But this… this is beyond the level.

John Watson cannot handle this.

No, he abso-bloody-lutely cannot handle this.

"They're gorgeous!" Lilly says enthusiastically, hovering as the bored delivery man drops the garish bouquet of flowers on John's desk. He can see carnations, and tulips, and a spray of those little white flowers that an ex-girlfriend he had in uni once punched him for leaving out, and oh dear god is that a rose?

John actually feels faint.

"Who's sending you flowers, Doctor Watson?" And now Sarah is standing in the door, wearing a funny little smile that puts the crown on top of the whole fucking mess that has been the life of John Watson for the past two weeks.

As always, because every problem in John's life can be summed up in two words, it has everything to do with Sherlock Holmes.

It started two weeks ago. Well, actually, it started much longer ago than that if you want to know: it started four years ago in a lab with a strange man winking and inviting him to share a flat, and even during the two years that John thought Sherlock was dead it never really stopped. Since he got back it's like everything has kicked into overdrive, and two weeks ago just happened to be the turning point when possibility actually turned into reality.

It was - brilliant. Messy, and uncertain, and sloppy, the way kissing for the first time always was, but it was Sherlock and him and that meant it was brilliant, and every time since then has been even more so. Even a quick kiss in the morning on his way to work leaves him grinning stupidly through his first half a dozen patients. John knows he'll never get tired of seeing Sherlock's face flushed pink, the way his lips start to look bruised and puffy, or of pressing his hand to Sherlock's neck to pull him close and feeling how fast his pulse can flutter. It's addicting, just like almost everything else about Sherlock.

But not this.

Wearily, feeling a headache building in his temples, John rubs a hand across his face. It feels good to block out the world for a moment, to not see Sarah's tight smile and Lilly's envious excitement, and he wishes he could somehow block the cloyingly sweet smell of the flowers just so that he could think, but Sherlock has been as ostentatious in this as he is in everything else. His office is going to smell like overly strong perfume for the next week and a half.

"Sarah," he says, "do you mind if I take the rest of the day?"

Sarah looks at the bouquet. Then at Lilly. Then back at John. "I think," she says, "that sounds like a good idea."

God bless understanding ex-girlfriends, John thinks half an hour later. He'd dropped the bouquet on Lilly's desk on the way out, and the way she'd squealed told him he wouldn't have to face any of their less appealing patients for a while. The tube lets him off half a block away from 221 Baker Street, and he spends the brief walk thinking about how he is going to talk to Sherlock about this.

This being the way that Sherlock has been acting for the past two weeks, that is. He's been complimenting John's jumpers and making breakfast in the morning and tea when John comes home from work. He's cleaned up his experiments in the kitchen and watched a movie the whole way through without saying a single word about the storyline. And it was a detective movie! And now he's sending flowers, and the whole thing is just, it's really quite creepy and John needs it to stop. Now.

He climbs the stairs, making no particular effort to be quiet, but somehow he still manages to surprise Sherlock. The detective physically jumps as John walks in and makes an aborted movement, as though he'd love to hide what's going on in the kitchen but already knows that there is no point to trying. John stops in the middle of taking off his coat and stares at the table. He has come home to a great many odd things during the past four years, but nothing could be stranger than what he's seeing at the moment.

Sherlock has made dinner.

"Did you…" Words fail him as John moves closer, his incredulous gaze sweeping across the kitchen. Yes, there are pots on the stove, bowls and spatulas lining the counters. Flour and some kind of sauce stain the floor instead of the chemicals he is accustomed to. There is no sign of Sherlock's chemistry equipment, no severed heads or otherwise unappealing body parts. On instinct John opens the fridge door, and he feels nauseous at the sight of the food - veggies, pork, what looks like a pie, even milk - that greets him. Sherlock went shopping.

"You weren't supposed to be home until four," Sherlock says to fill the silence. It sounds like an accusation, the words spoken almost defensively, and John can't help reacting.

"What does it matter when I come home?" he sputters, spinning around to face Sherlock. "What else could you have possibly done? Cleaned the loo? Purchased brand new matching furniture? Given the skull away? What the hell is going on here, Sherlock?"

"I cooked dinner." The slightest hint of a sneer curls at Sherlock's mouth. Yes, definitely defensive, the touch of embarrassment and something John can't identify lingering in those unfathomable eyes. The comment should be the beginning of an argument that ends with them both flustered and the air heavy with things they don't really mean, but instead it takes the wind out of him and his shoulders slump with a faint groan.

"Yes," he says wearily. "I can see that, Sherlock. What I want to know is why. Why did you cook dinner? Why would you send me flowers? Why have you been leaving off playing the violin at all hours, and not bringing body parts into the flat, and - and buying milk." He looks at the refrigerator again and shakes his head in quiet amazement before turning back to Sherlock. There is a familiar stubborn expression settling across Sherlock's face now, and John knows that the detective will not be doing him any favours. If John wants to know what's going on, he's going to have to deduce it.

This strange behaviour began two weeks ago, when they went from being partners to partners, so he knows that it has something to do with that. But what? John tries to remember if Sherlock has said or done anything that suggests this is an experiment of some sort. But if it is, what kind of result could Sherlock be after? If this is an experiment it's a bloody weird one. He frowns, looks at the table consideringly, noting that there is actually a candle sitting in between two plates. That right there tells John that no, this is not an experiment. Whatever this is, it's real.

So what then? He can't think of any reason for Sherlock to act this way. It's just - not Sherlock. This is not the man John has fallen in love with, the one who seduced him away from his crap little flat and gave him a life that is fun and exciting and worthwhile. This is a stranger, someone who cooks and cleans and doesn't dash about wildly or coax ear-grating sounds out of the violin or make up mad experiments just because he's bored, he's acting almost normal and -

Oh.

John's thoughts shudder to a stop.

Remarkably, before his eyes, a flush of pink creeps into Sherlock's cheeks.

"Sherlock," John starts, and then he stops because where does he go from there? What if he is wrong? He studies Sherlock's expression, wishing that he could see what's going on in that fantastic mind. He gentles his voice and says, "Why did you cook me dinner?"

"You're hungry when you come home. Having a meal within half an hour of your arrival makes you relaxed," Sherlock mumbles. Now he looks more like a cornered animal, desperate for escape but John is blocking the door. "You are generally fifty percent more likely to go to bed early if you don't, but you don't usually rest well. You have nightmares. You get up. And I thought - " He stops abruptly.

"You thought what?" John prompts, only he thinks he knows where Sherlock is going with this. "You thought you could get up and do an experiment when I wasn't around? Be your crazy self while I was sleeping?"

"That's what people do." Sherlock's expression has turned defiant, but uncertain. "In a relationship, isn't it? Don't try to deny it, John. I know you want the perfect little wife and the two point five children and a house out in the country. It's what your therapist has encouraged you to work towards. And why wouldn't you want that, why you want to remain here?" He half turns away. "I had thought that perhaps I could affect a more normal lifestyle to make this relationship worth your while, but now I see I was wrong. My mistake. As you know, I always miss something."

The torrent of words hurts, but the first four words - so familiar - are what make John mad all over again. He yanks his coat off in short, sharp movements and throws it on the table. He stalks forward, grips Sherlock's head, and yanks him down into the fiercest kiss that John can muster. And, if he does say so himself, John Watson is a damn good kisser. In the span of a minute Sherlock has stopped resisting and melted back against the cupboard, allowing John to step between his thighs so that their bodies are perfectly aligned. He controls the kiss with a hand to the back of Sherlock's neck while the other rubs absent circles on Sherlock's hip, and he keeps kissing and kissing and kissing until he can speak without wanting to shout.

"You," he says very quietly, "are an absolute git. A perfect wanker, if you want to know the truth. I'll say you've missed something. What the hell gave you the idea that I wanted anything but you?"

"My data - "

"Fuck your data, Sherlock. You've been driving me mad for the past two weeks, I'll have you know. I don't want you to act like someone different. I want you to be you." John exhales slowly, feeling more grounded now that he knows what the problem is. This is something he sees very rarely. This is Sherlock Holmes afraid. And as frustrating as this man can be, his fear makes John feel very protective and very loving, as though Sherlock were a fragile glass slide that could easily be crushed. John wants to hold him between cupped hands and keep him safe.

Sherlock looks down at him uncertainly. "Mrs Hudson thought it was a good idea," he ventures at last. "So did Lestrade, and Mycroft." He wrinkles his nose at the mention of his brother. "They said - you put up with a lot. Too much."

Pillocks, John thinks savagely, every last one of them. He doesn't know what they've been saying or hinting to Sherlock, had no idea they were even doing it, but he resolves to have a word with all of them. They don't know what John wants. "If you want to make compromises about certain things, I'd be happy to," he says lowly. "I appreciate the lack of violin at three in the morning, for instance, and the fact that I can put food away without worrying about it being contaminated. But that doesn't mean you need to change into a stepford wife, Sherlock."

"A what?" Sherlock's brow furrows, and John can't help laughing at the disdainful look on his face. For a moment Sherlock pouts, but slowly he begins to smile as well. It's a shy look, that smile, and it warms John's heart.

He kisses Sherlock again. Gentler this time, a serious of sweet little nips. "Now will you stop this?" he breathes in Sherlock's ear. "I am not going anywhere, even if you dump acid on the floor and leave me behind at crime scenes and insult my clothes and the telly shows I like to watch."

"What about if I send you another bouquet at work?" says Sherlock, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"Okay, that's grounds for me leaving," John allows. He looks at Sherlock, and Sherlock looks back at him, and a second later they both dissolve into laughter.

Please review!