Colorblind (A Johnlock Fanfiction)

Twenty-Five; Ashwood

"Good morning, John."

John was surprised when he woke up the next day, unscathed. And more surprised when he was exactly where he was the night before, and the evidence of a struggle was completely gone. And even more surprised to see Sherlock sitting in his chair, knees pulled up close to his chest, hands under his chin.

"Were you watching me?" John groaned.

"It's my couch, is it not?"

It was when John started to move that he felt the bruises around his stomach, the sting in his hand (he looked, to see a bright pink dot where the syringe went through his palm). He gingerly touched his fingers to his chin, and winced as if hit with a dull thrum of pain. Exhausted, he bent his head back into the makeshift pillow (a folded comforter) and closed his eyes again, to no avail. The light from the stark heather light sky was filtering in unrelentingly from a window in Sherlock's personal office, bathing the entire couch in harsh, white luminosity. John threw his uninjured arm over his face.

"You slept well?" Sherlock inquired dryly.

"Sod off, Sherlock," John groaned, a smile fighting its way to the surface.

"Made you porridge."

This morning could not get stranger.

John opened his eyes, taking off his hand and using it to prop up his body. On Sherlock's desk was a steaming bowl of gruel, as well as a cup of milk. "Wow." John blinked, uncertain of how to proceed. "You made that?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered solemnly. "Once I mastered the formula, it was easy enough to produce with moderate accuracy."

"Wow," John repeated. "...Woah."

"Just eat it, will you?"

"I mean," John murmured, bewildered, "it's just that you... made me breakfast."

"If you keep on stating the obvious, I'll dump it in the sink."

"No, no, I..." John paused. He felt like shit - like his stomach had been hit by a cinder block - and no part of him thought that getting up to eat was a good idea. However, John thought this, too: the only reason he wasn't missing his hands at the moment - the only reason his entire family wasn't dead - was because Sherlock didn't know he was being spied on.

Thus, John obediently flung off his one blanket and travelled barefoot to the desk (somehow, Moriarty had gotten his shoes and socks off without giving into the urge to cut off his toes), taking the steaming bowl in his hands. "Thank you."

Sherlock hardly looked up. John took his first bite as he sat atop the desk.

Honestly, it did not taste good, in any respects. The gruel had a strange stickiness that came from forgetting to stir, and Sherlock added way too much salt for it to be healthy. John didn't comment; he just pretended to like it and kept on eating. That was when Sherlock finally glanced at him.

"I like it," John lied cheerily.

"No, you don't."

"I do!"

"You hate it."

John grinned and ate the porridge with forced enthusiasm.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I can see the disgust swimming behind your smile, John."

"Alright," he replied, continuing to eat despite himself. He was starving. "You caught me. This is the worst porridge anyone's ever made."

"Too much salt?"