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A Burglary at Baker Street

Chapter 2: Talking to the Walls

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

John chuckled sheepishly, feeling every nerve in his body relaxing when he was certain Dean was okay. He could feel a bit of heat rising in his neck; that hadn't been his most dignified moment, any more than it had been Dean's. 

John's hand lifted away and his fingers curled in toward the tingly spot Dean's small weight had left behind, only to come in contact with the thin paper of the teabag. It had escaped his notice, Dean being his main concern. A bewildered smile tugged at his lips as he considered what it implied. 

"Er, what are you two up to?" he queried conversationally, easing his arms back to his sides, one hand wrapped loosely around the teabag. "Bit early to be out and about, isn't it?"

“Just… gettin’ some breakfast,” Dean answered, unaccustomed to explaining to the human that lived in the flat that they were going through his food. Without him knowing. Their leather bags were still empty, as their morning raid had only just commenced when John came into the kitchen.

“We’re always up at this time,” Sam said, one arm around Dean for support. John was the first person aside from Dean he’d ever opened up to about their twisted past before coming to live in London, and he felt more of an attachment to the man than Dean seemed to.

Sam’s eyes fell on the hand John had closed around the teabag Dean had tried to give him, and instead had gone along for the ride. “It just doesn’t normally end like this,” he said with a grin.

Dean tried to twist out of his grip. “Next time, you do the hard work handing a teabag to a giant and I’ll go look for food,” he griped. Finally pulling free, he stumbled a few steps before brushing himself impatiently off.

"So you… Is this a thing you guys just do?" John asked, glancing back at his hand. Though the scare from accidentally scooping up Dean had jolted him quite a bit, a fair part of John's brain was still waking up. He didn't put thought into much before his morning cuppa, and before now he never had reason to question how his teabags were always there without fail. He'd reckoned it just sort of happened.

Now he knew it did.

"Well, ah, carry on, I suppose," he nodded. "Didn't mean to interrupt." 

Sam's grin grew wider at John's reaction. “It's a ‘thing’ that's happened ever since you couldn't find a teabag and almost found us instead,” he explained gamely, thinking of all the times since they'd gone through the routine. Any time John was getting tea and they were in the cupboard, really. “Dean stuck a teabag in your hand when you almost spotted me instead and that time it worked. We've done it every morning since.”

The kettle going off offered a welcome distraction from the careless disturbance John had caused the Winchesters, and he quickly removed it from the heat before its whistle could grow too loud.

As the tea was steeping, a thought struck him and he turned back to the brothers. "Oh! Do you want some coffee? I could, y'know, get you a brew, for your trouble."

Dean froze up at the mention of coffee, his eyes growing wide. Sam could swear his pupils dilated at the offer from John. “C-coffee?” he asked hoarsely. For months they’d lived near the kitchen with no way to enjoy the heavenly brew that the human residents made.

“Isn't there too much for just us?” Sam asked with concern, always worried about waste. Considering the coffee pot was bigger than both brothers together-- in fact, closer to the size of their living room-- they would never finish it. It would be like drinking from a pool.

"Nah, it'll be fine if I make a half pot," John insisted, giving his tea a light stir with a small spoon. Through his few encounters with the brothers, he was more than aware of their complex about receiving things from humans. As much as he wanted to just make Dean the coffee, the young man's reaction to its mere mention obviously exciting him, John knew better than to start it before they'd accepted the offer.

"I'm sure Sherlock will drink whatever you don't," he added helpfully. He could only imagine what even half a pot of coffee would look like to someone four inches tall or less. It was quite a daunting thought.

The brothers exchanged a long look, torn over accepting the offer. Though they’d agreed to help out John and Sherlock in exchange for food, John’s offer came before they’d actually done anything to help, leaving them in a conundrum. So many years of their lives had been spent avoiding humans and the thought of reliance, a lesson they’d learned better than most after nearly ending up as pets.

“If Sherlock’s having some anyway…” Dean said, tentatively accepting the offer and taking a step forward to address John. He was steady on his feet now that he’d recovered from his unexpected morning ride.

Sam came up behind Dean, slapping him on the back and nodding that he’d take some as well. Though, he did feel the temptation to ask John for some tea, instead, remembering the times their adopted family had procured teabags and steeped their supply of water in the brew. It was never hot tea like John had, at most they got lukewarm tea, but the drink was soothing. Moira, especially, was fond of tea, and had nagged her two older brothers incessantly to get them to return with a biscuit for it while they were out. She knew about and was fond of Dean's particular knack.

“Same,” Sam said, putting the tea out of mind. Something in him refused to let him just come out and ask for tea, tying up his words.

John smiled. "Great," he said, already preparing the machine.

He tried not to feel bad that he kept putting the brothers on the spot with his spur-of-the-moment offers. He'd do the same for anyone he knew as well as he knew the Winchesters, and that wasn't even much; John had a feeling he'd barely scratched the surface with those two. Still, he had to keep in mind that they had every right to be suspicious of anything freely given by a human.

As he set the coffee maker to start on the brew, he realized he didn't exactly have cups Sam and Dean’s size. "Um. Do you need something to drink it with?"

“A bottlecap if you have one,” Dean answered promptly. They’d already made several bottle caps vanish around the house to help hold their water supplies, covering the containers with a strip of fabric to keep any pests from partaking of the refreshing liquid. Thimbles would work just as well, but Dean didn’t see Sherlock or John as the type for that, though Mrs. Hudson probably had a few downstairs. 

Dean made a note in his mind to check her place sometime in the future. Lost needles were very useful as makeshift weapons. Not as handy as their knives, but a knife fashioned by a human was an incredibly rare commodity, and not one that anyone else would own. If they found some extra supplies like that, they could drop them off back with their family. It had been some months since their last visit, caught up as they’d been with Sherlock’s discovery and the subsequent pranks until coming to an understanding.

“Once it cools, we can just use our foil,” Dean continued, knowing that no matter how hot he could drink coffee himself, there was no way he’d be able to hold the foil cup with hot liquid in it. 

John was surprised he didn't think of that. Christ, I need to wake up. He nodded numbly and went in search of what Dean had requested.

It took a bit of looking, but he found an abandoned water bottle in the back of the fridge, screwing off the cap and giving it a quick rinse and dry. By then the fresh, dark liquid had begun to pour itself into the pot.

"Milk? Sugar?" John asked, fetching some for his tea. The question came automatically, and it hit him a little late that the brothers probably wouldn't know their preference.

Dean wrinkled his nose. Contrary to what John thought, he knew to declare, “The only way to drink coffee is black,” as he recalled the times he’d made coffee for his dad while he was growing up. Or ordered it at a coffee shop. There was nothing like the bitter flavor of the black brew to wake someone up.

Sam glanced between Dean and John, realizing he didn’t have an answer for them. “Sugar…?” he said tentatively, more question than answer.

"Yeah, sure," John chuckled at Dean's unexpectedly strong opinions about coffee. He supposed it made sense, he was a few years older than Sam. Plenty of opportunity to garner a taste for the stuff. 

After setting up his own tea with a pair of sugar cubes and a drop of milk, the coffee finally finished up. John picked up the pot and carefully filled the bottlecap, setting it near the brothers along with another sugar for Sam. Then he grabbed a tall mug for Sherlock's portion and set it aside at the table.

"Fair warning," he put in as he sank into his own chair with his tea. "Sherlock doesn't stay asleep for long after the coffee's been brewed." John reckoned it was the smell, wafted straight down the hall into the detective's bedroom. Perked him right up, like magic.

Sam leaned over the bottlecap with one hand propped against the counter, staring down into the murky liquid. His reflection stared back at him, dark eyes looking up. The surface rippled as Dean dipped a foil cup into it, only taking a drop so it would cool fast.

Dean sighed deeply as he drank down the bitter drink. “That hits the spot,” he mumbled around his cup.

With Dean clearly in one piece, Sam decided the drink couldn’t be that bad. He fished out his own sheaf of aluminum foil and mechanically folded it into a cup, his hands following through with motions he didn’t have to think about after so many years doing it. The end result was a thin bowl that served as a cup, and Sam dipped it in, following his older brother’s example.

Taking a sip, Sam hacked and spat it out. “Dude! How can you drink this?!”

Dean’s smug grin was hidden by his cup as he tilted it back for another draught, this one longer as the liquid cooled. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

John took a long, luxurious sip while he watched the brothers try the coffee. Dean was clearly acclimated to the bitter flavor, but poor Sam looked almost affronted at the taste. The doctor bit back a chortle as he swallowed his drink and put it down.

"Here, try it with a bit of sugar and milk," he suggested, standing to fetch the milk from the fridge. "It really helps dilute the taste."

As he poured a tiny bit of milk into the jug cap, far less than the amount of coffee he'd given Sam and Dean, the telltale creak of a door sounded from the end of the hall and soon enough Sherlock lumbered into the kitchen. He squinted in the dim morning light, his dark curls in utter disarray, barely aware of his surroundings.

"Morning," greeted John automatically, inwardly commenting that the detective looked like he'd gotten about as much sleep as John had.

Sherlock grunted in response, dropping into the chair opposite John's tea. He plopped two sugars into the mug that had awaited him and kicked it back without bothering to stir.

Sam leaned over the bottle cap again to avoid looking at Sherlock, unable to completely hide how the detective unnerved him. He tilted his cup so the drop of dark coffee splashed into the milky brown color. Dean made a face at him as he pulled over the cube of sugar, contemplating just how much to add to the bitter liquid.

“Now you’re just ruining it,” Dean complained as Sam tipped the entire cube into the cap.

Sam arched his eyebrows. “You’ve already got enough,” he chided, scooping up another cup. His second sip was far more tentative than the first, but this time he was pleasantly surprised by the flavor.

“Like drinking liquid sugar,” Dean muttered into his cup, tilting back his head for more.

John smiled, glad that the sugar seemed to improve Sam's taste for the coffee. Then he turned back to his flatmate, still chugging down his tall mug without so much as a breath.

"Rough night?" he surmised, smirking into his sip of tea.

Sherlock downed the last of his drink and gave a small shudder, shooting a flat look at John. He rubbed his face sluggishly, still trying to process the small voices he'd heard a moment ago. Those weren't usually there in the morning. A glance around as he smoothed down his curls revealed the Winchesters fairly relaxed on the counter. He quirked an eyebrow at the sight of an entire block of sugar sticking out of a coffee-filled bottle cap. Even from that distance, Sherlock could make out each brother's countenance and easily deduce whose idea that was.

Someone's got a sweet tooth, he thought, smirking faintly.

With the caffeine slowly filling his body with energy, Sherlock forced himself to get back up and fetch a slice of bread and a tub of butter, spreading the latter into the former with a dull knife. He was too lazy to make toast like he usually would, yet he glumly partook in the soft bread topped with cold butter as though he had no other choice.

"This will take getting used to," he remarked, his voice even deeper than usual from the disuse that came naturally with sleep.

Dean, having drained his cup of coffee, was in agreement with Sherlock for once. “You’re telling me,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve had caffeine in the morning in ages.”

Crumpling the foil cup, Dean was about to toss it aside when he caught Sam’s look of disapproval. With a grimace he flattened it out, flicking the remaining droplets of coffee from the edges. Waste not.

Sam was dutifully nursing his cup of coffee, a distinct counter to Dean chugging his. “It definitely tastes better with sugar and milk,” he said to himself.

Forgotten off to the side, the cube of sugar finally dipped completely below the surface of the milky liquid, dissolving into the warmth and likely turning the coffee into liquid sugar just as Dean predicted.

"So, what's on the agenda for today?" John asked the company, stretching his arms overhead. He felt his joints pop and the tension leave his shoulders, and gave a satisfied sigh.

Before either Winchester could chime in, Sherlock asserted, "Dean and I are going to work toward honing his ability."

He said this matter-of-factly, as though it had been decided long in advance. This was the first John had heard of such plans, and he turned a confused frown to Dean in hopes of confirmation.

Dean’s eyebrow rose up of its own accord, though it was doubtful either human would be able to see it from their relatively distant vantage point. Sam’s mouth flattened as he tried to hide a snigger, already knowing that Dean had no idea what Sherlock had planned out for them for the day. This was all news to the brothers.

A distant part of Sam’s mind wondered how he could possibly hone his own ability, seeing as it needed other humans around to have any effect. John only made his neck prickle like pins and needles while Sherlock had a low-level burn that was slowly lowering in intensity the more time he spent with the detective. At that thought, Sam’s hand went to his neck, distractedly rubbing at the sensation to try and dispel it.

“We are?” Dean asked sternly, carefully flattening out the rest of his tinfoil and folding it up, keeping his hands busy while his mind raced. What could Sherlock possibly have in mind to hone his ability? Would it help, or would he end up spending the day chasing his tail? 

And when the hell had he signed up for impromptu training sessions? This sounded as much fun as the time Sam had gotten the jump on him during their prank wars, not only soaking Dean’s hair with a thimble but also pinning him to the ground before Dean could react. He might be faster than Sam, but Sam had reach and strength on him.

"Of course we are," Sherlock said around a bite of bread, a touch of exasperation leaking into his tone. It was so bothersome when nobody was on the same page with him, which was often. "We discussed this yesterday and decided sooner was better than later."

John blinked. "They didn't even come round yesterday," he pointed out. John, at least, didn't recall seeing them the evening before.

"I assumed someone was listening," Sherlock shrugged.

“Oh, well that clears everything up,” Dean said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. Out of all the times he’d seen Sherlock pull that one on John, he’d somehow never expected to have it turned around on him.

After being plucked out of the cupboard without warning and then told he was going to be training, also without warning or any way to prepare, this was shaping up to be quite a day already.

“You’ll have to refresh my memory,” Dean said, his gruff little voice as firm as ever and speaking with a level of authority that contrasted with his size. “Seems I have a difficult time recalling conversations I was absent for.”

Sherlock brushed his hands off, having finished his meager breakfast, and crossed his arms with a pointed stare at Dean. "If we are ever to put your skill to effective use, we first need a basic understanding of it. How it works, and whether or not it can be used at will and not just by instinct. If it can, then the next logical step is to improve upon what already exists, refine it until you're sharper, faster, as close to one hundred percent reliable as possible. Are we in agreement on that?"

Dean crossed his arms, mirroring Sherlock’s posture back at him. Sam sat this argument out, sipping his coffee in peace and his eyes wide at the small showdown.

“I agree that honing our skills is for the best,” Dean said, not giving an inch in his stubborn behavior. “A skill is useless if you don’t know how to use it.”

If Sam was surprised at this admission, he tried his best to hide it behind his foil cup as he choked down another sip of coffee instead of laughing. He could certainly grow used to the taste, he supposed, thumping his chest to clear his throat. It wasn’t the worst in the world. Plus it did give him an odd shot of energy that he didn’t normally have this early in the morning.

“But if we’re really doing this,” Dean continued, “then we do it together. I’m not playing fetch. And,” he held up a finger, “I better get some damn breakfast before we start.”

A smirk tugged at Sherlock's lip. He knew he was right, like always, even if it took everyone else a little longer to get there. "Done, then," he agreed, retreating to his room to get dressed.

John threw up a hand as the detective left without fulfilling his end of the bargain with Dean. He had stayed out of their banter, finding that his input would be next to useless. Heaving a sigh, he set aside his mostly empty mug of tea and turned in his seat to face the counter.

"Anything I can get you? Something to eat, or…" He trailed off with a shrug, not wanting to give the impression that he thought they couldn't fetch food for themselves. The polite offer came naturally, but John would resolve to hold it in if it put the Winchesters off.

Dean was still watching where Sherlock had vanished to. “We’ll figure something out,” he said to John, turning down the offer. They’d already pushed their luck enough for one morning with the teabag and the coffee.

Standing, Dean brushed his pants and jacket off, trying to resume his previously composed demeanor from before being swept out of the cabinet in a hand. He gave his shred of foil one last flick to get rid of any remaining coffee before tucking it into his duffel bag.

“Comin?’ " Dean asked Sam.

Sam looked from Dean to John, and then down at the bottle cap full of sweetened coffee. His ears flushed and he sprang to his feet, downing the rest of his drink. “Y-yeah!” Sam gave his foil the same flick as Dean to rid it of the droplets, slightly rueful at the thought that now his satchel would smell like coffee for weeks. The mice he knew in the row of buildings would just love that, him smelling like the humans in the building, but it was unavoidable if he wanted to avoid wasting the foil.

“Thanks!” Sam said, turning to John briefly.

John nodded and gave a small wave as they left. Too much, he concluded, making a note to himself to try not to toe that line next time.

"Welcome to the flat share," he murmured just before he watched them disappear. Something told him that unusual mornings like this would turn out to be not so unusual anymore.

Notes:

In which Dean is introduced to Sherlock's habit of talking to him when he's not there and assuming they're both on board with the plan.

Next: January 9th, 2019 at 9pm.

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