… art school, or something.

Sherlock shifts, appreciative of John’s weight, and warmth, that is still beside him even though it’s 10 o’clock in the morning so very far from John’s usual schedule. “Only if they include the pants,” Sherlock mutters as John’s fingers touch his hair.
“Sherlock–!”
“You think very deliberately,” he mused. “Should be an artist’s model. Could do a study in sheets..drapery? Except he’d never bloody move to change poses,” he recites John’s thoughts gently. Then, adds. “Only if they include the pants.” A pair of redpants slung over the top of the headboard. John smirks, presses a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, a phone rings.

“Oh, Bill. No, no, I’m free,” his words are tentative, he doesn’t want to leave, but feels he should. Sherlock is already sulking. John hangs up after a few moments, pulling the other man close to him, but his energy has changed from before. “Bill wants me to meet him down at the pub. I should go, we haven’t had a chance to catch up for a while.”
“But it’s a Sunday,” Sherlock protests with a groan.
“Sunday lunch or a pint, then. Won’t be long. A couple of hours. Need anything from the shops?” He emerges from the bathroom fully dressed, checking the window for the weather.
“Patches.”
“Anything else?” John stands in the doorway, neatening his clothes, straightening his cuffs, and his collars.
“Ask Gladstone,” he mutters, before rolling over.
“Anything else?” John asks, smiling fondly at the determined, wriggling bullpup. He closes the door to Baker Street, taking the stairs with ease.

Chewie?

The pub is always the same, and while John is looking forward to catching up with Bill, he’s never been very good in pubs since dragging Harry out of far too many in recent (and not-so recent) years. Bill approaches him, smiling from behind newspaper-stand reading glasses and round cheeks. And there’s someone else with him, too. “John, this is Jean, Jean, this is John. Jean works in marketing,” Bill offered gently, and John shook her hand. As the hour drags on, he tries not to think about how pub-excursions with Lestrade are so much better because the two of them just talk about Sherlock while John tries not to use words like bright, brilliant and beaut-

“So, John. You write a blog, I’ve read some of your stuff and I think it’s great,” Jean is smiling, and John realises she’s said something.
“Living with him must be terrible though,” Bill says with a rumbling chortle.
“Oh, it’s, fine, actually. It’s all fine,” John nods, feeling the conservation slow he still doesn’t say anything more.
“So Bill told me you went to King’s? My sister went there she did social science and public policy for a while…”

A text comes through, enough to make John frown, firmly.
Emergency. – SH
“Everything all right?” Jean smiles warily.
“No, sorry. It’s…an emergency. I have to go.” He leaves, slamming notes down on the table and bidding a hasty good-bye. From there, it’s a maze of cabs and sprinting on the pavement. 4 and a half years of chasing Sherlock through the streets allowed him to make short work of the distance home, however. Still, he takes the stairs two at a time, hand firmly on the hilt of his sidearm as he pulled open the door to 221B, and then to Sherlock’s room.

Sherlock has barely moved.

“What the bloody hell?” He stops, finally, to catch his breath.
“Close the window,” he mumbles into his pillow.
“You summoned me all the way from..” he sighs, moving to the window, closing it. “To close a window?”
“How was the date?”
“How did you know that, then?” The good doctor’s hands brush the upper part of Sherlock’s thigh as his sheets are rearranged.
“Sunday. And you and Bill meet on-”
“Saturday,” John finishes, shaking his head, but smiling. “How am I supposed to know if it’s a real emergency though, you know like, oh..the flat’s on fire, or, you’ve finally been run over by a bus, or..”
Sherlock reaches for him, pulls him in close, kisses him. “By a distinct lack of SH.” 

“Right. Well, I’m off to do the shopping, then. Patches, you said?”
“Yes.”

A little while later, John has unpacked the groceries (alone, thank-you), he watches Gladstone waddle away victoriously.

Chewie!

“Patches,” he slips the packet onto the bedside table.
“Perhaps you should draw me after all,” Sherlock’s tone is cheeky.
“Oh? And why would that be?”
“Well, you’ll be needing plenty of interests to keep you entertained through your permanent bachelorhood,” he smirks.
“Oh will I just?”
“Mm. You’d need to study your subject very thoroughly first, however.”

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