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He was sitting in a relatively tidy sitting room - for them anyway - and penning a few notes to himself. Firstly a reminder to himself in regards to his patients over the next few days. That he really ought to ask Mrs.Hudson to iron his waistcoat was one of the few things quickly scribbled into the margins before he forgot. And secondly, he was taking up a habit he really should have considered giving up after the first one was published in the Strand. He was making a list about a one Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

It was a vice he rarely indulged in, much less would admit to. However he hadn't seen Holmes since last night when he had taken his leave of this very sitting room, and hadn't heard him since around 3am when he finished plucking at his violin; so John Watson felt relatively safe in writing his lists. It hardly mattered that they made him sound a bit desperate and a bit like a lovesick teenager at times, the object of his affections was definitely unaware and would stay that way until Watson lost his mind or could hope to gauge his reaction in any way.

This one had seemed relatively safe at first, but was turning out the way they usually did, with Watson crumpling it into a ball and tossing it into the waste basket. Then fishing it out five minutes later and smoothing it out, finishing it before he disposed of it in a more permanent and less potentially incriminating way.

On Sherlock Holmes and this modern world:

(Things he appears to enjoy)
1. Greater diversity, be it merely people or crime itself
2. CSI Television shows, though he's short with them occasionally for being "Moronic and utterly blind, Watson really!"
3. The fact that he is some sort of idol, a favorite character of a great many people. The majority of these are older gentlemen and young girls, oddly enough.
4. That children are apparently still the resource they once were. It's possible he might like to have children some day, I only wonder whadfjdf
5. Light bulbs. He appears to have some sort of fascination with modern electricity and often bursts into rooms without warning and flicks the switch for a bit while speaking. No matter that 'rooms' often means 'my room' or that he doesn't seem to ever say anything very important, like it's some excuse to sdfalk

(Things he outwardly and openly loathes)
1. That the police force, while notably better, still contains people like Lestrade.
2. War, and the amount of veterans like myself. We both stiffen in the presence of one, though I continue to tell myself he is most likely doing it out of horror, I still tend to think it's because hed sfadsfl
3. Whenever I watch House. He's remarked on occasion that it's fanciful and ridiculous, that every episode goes the same way, and that I only watch it because of the lead character. I don't dare disagree.

Having sufficiently made himself flush, Watson finished off scratching out several lines of the paper. It didn't matter that he would burn it as soon as possible anyway. Absently he toyed with the pen in one hand, folding the corners of his paper over out of habit as his mind wandered. He was beginning to worry about Holmes now, something he devoted a lot more thought to than was probably healthy. It was nearly lunch time now, and while Watson hadn't been awake for very long, Holmes had probably skipped breakfast and everything...

He was just about to stand up and lock the list into the desk in his room and go in search of his flatmate, at the risk of being teased relentlessly, when the man himself walked through the door. Or, if he was being honest with himself, Watson had missed him walking in the door. At the moment he was staring at him intently, doubtless his brilliant mind was deducing that Watson had no friends and a great deal of time on his paws, as if that was difficult to see. Holmes commented on the lighting, looking delighted as he usually was about running up the bill. Watson briefly considered that Holmes was worried about him reading and writing with poor lighting, but passed that off as ridiculous.

And the man never stopped moving! He was inside, had removed all unnecessary clothing and- no, Watson had better stop himself there. Otherwise he might consider just how much clothing was unnecessary, especially in the case of his detective, and making himself blush would be inexcusable in Holmes' presence. It was nearly as bad as letting himself get angry, both were times when Holmes never missed a change in his expression. He'd very nearly revealed himself twice in this manner, and third time was usually the charm.

Watson didn't even look up from his paper, which he had slowly and subtly folded in half, when Holmes felt the need to steal his pen. His pen, the tip of which had been recently in his mouth. Watson did his best to ignore that unruly thought as well, and glanced up to meet Holmes' gaze as he spoke.

Considering for a moment the possibility that Holmes was mocking him for having stayed inside until the afternoon along with not having any plans for the rest of the day, Watson frowned. But no, he and Holmes both knew that the only real friend either of them had was each other... didn't they? Perhaps not.

With a tired sigh, like he was already exhausted from having to deal with Holmes for five minutes, he replied. "No Holmes, just reminding myself of a few patients, new referrals and a check up or two this week. Mustn't forget."

Watson watched him with calculated interest, picking up the paper after a moment to hide most of his face and the folded paper in his lap as well. It was just as well that he did, for in another moment Watson discovered he needed the barrier immensely. Holmes was chewing on his pen. Holmes was chewing on his pen. His pen. That had recently been in his mouth.

Rather proud of himself for having managed to regain abstract thought in record time, Watson managed to pick up the last sentence or so of Holmes' no doubt magnificently intelligent response. "Mrs. Hudson has left for the day, I believe, off to her sister's. She apologized to me about it this morning, but I told her not to worry; she's complained long enough about her nerves and deserves a longer vacation." That had earned him an extra ration of eggs with his breakfast, and his favorite kind of tea instead of Holmes'. Not that Holmes had been around to complain either way. Shifting the paper in his grasp, Watson shook his head briefly and added. "No... I'm afraid it's nearly lunch, and we're left to our own devices today my dear fellow."

Never mind that being "left to their own devices" made Watson wish that perhaps that meant more than attempting to cook or going out together. It didn't matter if what he wished it meant wasn't illegal in these modern times, he and Holmes would continue to treat it as such around each other. Or, he would anyway. Watson wasn't entirely sure Holmes had cared then, or that he cared now. Outwardly he was all parts the heartless automotive. Not that he didn't care for Watson, and Mrs. Hudson, and even Lestrade, in his own way. Just that it wasn't how Watson cared for him.

Yes he was falling, and falling hard, for his friend and flatmate. Honestly Watson knew he should tell him, for he was terrible and lying and often wore his heart on his sleeve. Holmes would figure it out eventually, and Watson knew he should simply tell him and get it over with. But such a thing could only be met in a small manner of ways. One would be with slight disgust or horror, something he'd ruled out of Holmes' probable reactions long ago. Another would be amusement, relentless teasing. That was something he would bet on from his friend, and somehow it would hurt more. And thirdly, he might... no, it wouldn't do to let himself hope that way.

Watson glanced back down at his newspaper as soon as Holmes began smirking at him. He was making no attempt at hiding his outright stares, and when that happened it made Watson entirely uneasy. Holmes had very particular eyes, and a way of staring at you as though you were an open book. It made the most hardened criminals or Yarders glance down at their feet like school children, but he opted to pretend not to notice.

The very first time he'd been subjected to that kind of stare was also the first and last time he'd attempted to stare back. He'd shaken Holmes' hand, amused to find it covered in sticking plaster, and looked up to meet his outright stare. That, however, only served to make it worse. He was certain Holmes had learned enough about him in those few, almost awkward moments that he might have been a closer friend than Stamford. Apparently Holmes had finished studying him for now, because upon glancing up he was met with the sight of a taller, more slender body than his own launching out of the opposite chair and somehow ending up behind his before Watson could stammer a warning or question.

"Hungrier than usual for you still means a few pieces of toast Holmes, and I don't doubt that's beyond your capabilities." Watson groused, but tucked his list inside the paper and slid both into the opening between the cushion and the arm of his chair before standing. He was more than happy to do anything Holmes asked of him, but if he didn't complain or mother him like the doctor he was, well... it just wouldn't feel right. Holmes was beginning to act rather strange, and Watson found he couldn't meet his gaze for longer than a moment, but the man was hardly ever predictable in any case.

Careful never to place too much of his weight onto his injured leg, Watson followed behind his friend not without a visible limp. He was trying not to use his cane around the house lately, and despite being snappish whenever Holmes commented on this, it was going better than he had expected. Upon arriving in the kitchenette, which was going to be difficult for the two of them to move around in without bumping elbows, Watson leaned against the counter and raised both eyebrows at Holmes. He was well aware that his expressions could speak louder volumes to the man than his words could, and also that this could potentially give him away someday. "Well? In the mood for anything in particular? You know I'm not a very good cook, passable at best actually, but considering how many times you burned toast before you figured out the toaster..."

Watson had missed Holmes hesitation in following him, which was lucky considering his spirits would have most likely been considerably damped had he incorrectly deduced Holmes found his limp disdainful. That would have been the conclusion he would have reached, undoubtedly, if he had not missed it. Upon shifting slightly, his cursed leg already beginning to ache, Watson had found that his one hand rested upon a small slip of paper, no doubt a note left by Mrs.Hudson. He found himself unable to read it immediately, however, by the nearly silent sound of Holmes' laugh. Crumpling the paper slightly, he turned to his friend and listened carefully as always.

Of course he did not have 'confidence' in the 'culinary abilities' of Sherlock Holmes. Nor did the fire department, actually. When Holmes began fidgeting and shifting around Mrs.Hudson's food supply he took the opportunity to smooth out the note and quickly scan it before those sharp gray eyes returned to him. Honestly, was his friend unable to sit still for one moment? It read: "John, if you are half the good and honorable man I firmly believe you to be, you will NOT let your flatmate into this kitchen unsupervised. Also you will endeavor to keep him occupied enough that he does not burn the furniture and shoot holes in the walls. Again. Your landlady, Mrs.Hudson."

Well. That seemed more like a pleading threat than a helpful suggestion.

Chuckling softly, Watson glanced up to find Holmes had duplicated his earlier expression quite well, eyebrows raised as he waited not-impatiently. "I'm sorry Holmes, I quite missed what you said there. Something about tea?" He raised the note and waved it across the small space into his friend's face, knowing that he might as well give it to him before he thought to take it. His leg could not take much more abuse before he had to sit down again. "It seems someone else has little-to-no faith in your effective usage of her kitchen."