Chapter Text
Sherlock had accepted, much to John's surprise, to do the pasta challenge. Much like their original pancake themed quest, the plan was to go in a loop, trying the best pasta places that the Master Detective had so brilliantly made a list of. Through King's Cross, Highbury, Covent Garden, Peckham and then right back to Baker Street, where a pasta place sat right under their noses, one they had no idea about. Mariana had teased that it was due to Sherlocks peculiarity when it came to ordering from the same 3 takeaways every time.
They set off on the first day, bundled up more than usual due to the chilling early autumn weather. Sherlock in his longcoat, Mariana in a pair of rather genius fleece lined tights, and John in something the other two had so fondly called his 'old man jumper'. The trio walked, John and Sherlock hand in hand, through to the tube station, chatting aimlessly about work and cases and taxes, all of which John groaned that the listeners would not want to hear about.
"I'm just telling them the truth, John! 221b's monthly biscuit consumption is far greater than the average two person flat's should be." She laughed, elbowing John ever so lightly in the ribs.
"You say two person, but don't think I don't know about you sneaking the digestives while you do....filing, or whatever." John elbowed right back in return, earning him an eye roll from Mariana and a rather nice chortle from his partner.
His heart warmed a little, then. Partner. He and Sherlock had both decided not to label what they had, as apart from the occasional kiss nothing had changed much from their original routine. They loved eachother, deeply of course, but no more intimately than they did before they decided to become what Carol had so tastefully described as 'an item'. They were just Sherlock and John, and it didn't really need to get much more complicated than that.
Their first stop was Lina Stores, a teal-centric bistro style restaurant. The lighting was soft, which Sherlock appreciated, and it smelt of garlic and tomato and cheese, along with whatever other herbs normally went into pasta. John was more versed in the plain, smooth tomato penne department.
Mariana ordered for them, as she normally did while they were out, not particularly trusting John to pronounce the dishes correctly, nor trusting Sherlock to not analyse, and probably unintentionally upset, their lovely waitress.
"I'm just saying, Sherlock, just because we love and appreciate you and all your efforts, doesn't mean everyone will understand that you....lack in certain social departments." She said, sweetly petting Sherlock's arm as she did. Sherlock simply sulked in response.
"You know we love you, Sherlock mate. You just tend to overanalyse when you're nervous, is a-" John's sentence was cut off by a ruffled looking detective.
"I am not nervous, Watson. Simply...overaware."
"Yeah, nervous. That's what I said."
Their food was nice, if a little oversalted in John's expert opinion, and they answered Q&A questions and laughed at the discord's silly questions. They stayed out late, as much as they didn't mean to, their cheeks ruddy and their stomachs full as they walked back to the flat. Their smiles were bright, even Sherlock's, as they made their way into 221. Mariana wished them a goodnight, rolling her eyes fondly and Archie shuffled past into her flat.
Sherlock helped John up the stairs, smiling a little teasingly. "You really do have a funny gait, Watson. It's quite endearing." He was met with an eye roll and a middle finger, but his doctor was grinning as he hung their coats up.
They collapsed onto the couch together, Sherlock sprawled over John like some sort of gangly limpet, rubbish British television playing in the background. John stroked his fingers through his detectives hair, making sure to tickle his face with the locks more than once, much to Sherlock's faux-annoyance.
Their evening was slow, warm and safe as it always was, filled with quiet laughter and plans for the next few weeks. Boring adult talk, stuff John liked to tease was their age poking through, especially as he rubbed the grey hairs sprouting at Sherlock's temples. They were middle aged men, little losers in their own little loser bubble.
Eventually, John yawned and pressed a kiss to the middle of Sherlock's forehead, warning him not to stay up too late. He headed to bed, humming quietly as he got ready. He slipped into Sherlock's bed that night, knowing his Detective would find him even if he wasn't in his usual place. He was good at finding things, after all.