The Final Case: Part one

He's a genius. A bloody brilliant man and easily the smartest in London – Hell, maybe even the world… yet he can't even see the most obvious thing in the world even if I shove it in his face and scream it at him… John thought sadly as he watched the amazing arrogant bastard as he lay on the couch, his hands pressed together and rested against his lips. His eyes scanned the ceiling lazily as he thought, his body so relaxed and his mind so sharp. He turned back to the pile of dishes that sat in front of him, picking up the rag next to the sink and drying the plate in his hand, running slow, small circles on the glassware. Will he ever see..?

"John," Sherlock's sharp voice cut into his thoughts, making John jump slightly and snap his attention to the detective at once. "Stop thinking, will you?"

"Wha'?" John asked, his face turning the lightest shade of pink.

"Stop thinking, it's too loud and annoying. I'm trying to figure something out which I can't do when you're thinking such loud thoughts."

"Right, of course," John replied slowly, turning back to the dish in his hand and reaching up, placing it in the cabinet with a sigh. "Can't have that."

"Glad you see it the way I do, John," Sherlock sneered, falling quiet again.

The flat was silent except for the clinking of dishes as John worked. He got halfway through before Sherlock sighed heavily, stood – his bathrobe falling around his figure, lazily tied around his waist – and walked over the coffee table. John watched him with quizzical eyes as Sherlock reached for the fridge, opened the door and started searching through the bottom shelves.

"What are you lo-?" John started before Sherlock sighed and snapped the door closed, some of the contents in the fridge shifting and some obviously falling to the bottom of the unit.

"I'm going to the store," Sherlock grunted, heading up to his room. John heard the snap of the door closing and raised an eyebrow up the stairs in that direction.

What is he doing? John mused, turning back to the dishes. Maybe he'll finally do the shopping… He couldn't stop the small laugh at that that bubbled up through his throat. Sherlock? Shopping? Yeah, like that would ever happen.

Footsteps on the stairs made John turn to see Sherlock trotting down them, messing with the collar of his tight light green shirt. He pulled his coat on over the ensemble before coming back into the kitchen. "Am I correct in thinking you want me to pick up milk and bread while I'm there?" Sherlock asked, checking the fridge once again, John's mouth falling open at the question. Sherlock turned his gaze to John, still doubled over in the fridge. "John?"

"Huh? Oh, yes, if you can?" John said, closing his mouth. "T-that would be great, thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock grunted, closed the door of the fridge and went to the door. "I'll be back," he called over his shoulder before the door shut closed behind him.

John sighed heavily into the empty flat, drying his hands and abandoning the remaining pile of dishes. Throwing the rage towards the edge of the sink, he moved into the sitting room and sat in his armchair, picking up the paper. A picture of Sherlock ducking away from the camera painted the third page in black and white, and John couldn't help but smile. The grimace on his face, the way his arm was around John's shoulder and pulling his quickly through the crowd, his other hand half way shoved into the camera lens in an attempt to block out the shot; John though it was the cutest thing in the world. He smiled as he stared at the picture of his best friend, unable to turn the page. He almost didn't hear the baritone voice that sounded from the doorway.

"Is there a reason you're staring and smiling at that picture of me, John?" Sherlock asked as the door opened slightly, him reaching in to grab his wallet that he left on the coffee table.

"What? N-no! I was reading the article! That's all," John muttered, the excuse rolling past his lips quickly.

"And you're smiling because-?" Sherlock prompted.

"W-well, I mean… look at your face! It's… it's funny," John stammered, waving his hand over the picture. "I mean… you look like you just ate a tart lemon or something." He let a dry chuckle pass his lips, no heat really behind it.

"Yes, yes, I know, but it's the best picture they're going to get of me," Sherlock waved off. He nodded at John before he let the door shut behind him.

John sighed in relief as he heard the door shut, shutting the paper. That was close, he thought, shaking his head. Why couldn't he just tell Sherlock that he liked him? He hinted plenty of times, so why couldn't the arrogant bastard figure it out? It would just be so much easier if he knew.