Chapter Text
John Watson cooks a mean roast dinner. He learned how to make one back when he was at university, although he wasn't able to pick the choicest cuts back then. His roast potatoes are crisp on the outside and fluffy on the inside and since a selective viewing of Nigella Lawson, he makes his own gravy too. It's a dinner fit for a king, or at the very least a consulting detective, but while their very occasional dinner guests have applauded John's efforts, Sherlock has never once said he liked it.
Instead, John has been treated to the occasional grunt and a half cleaned plate. John's heart sank the first time Sherlock left his roast potatoes untouched. He was more upset the week they didn't have a case and Sherlock briefly looked at the offerings on the table before declaring he was heading to Barts to dissect a barrister's lungs instead. John called him a tit and sulked for five minutes before inviting Mrs Hudson up to share. She knew how to offer a fitting compliment and John's bruised ego was soothed ever so briefly.
He's toughened up over the past year, and although he's always called Sherlock out on mis-behaviour toward others, he finds it harder to confront him when John is the recipient of the detective's barbed comments. This evening's effort on Sunday dinner is John's finest yet and he has set the table with napkins and the best crockery. He's pushed evidence of Sherlock's experiments away and set a pretty red candle in the middle of the table. He did consider dropping some of the confetti Molly left at Christmas but decided it was a step too far for a dinner that meant very little to Sherlock.
Sherlock strode in when John called and settled at the table, paper in one hand and fingers outstretched for the cup of tea that isn't there. He looked up as John placed the heavy plate in front of him and frowned.
"I thought we weren't doing wine this weekend."
"We never said that," said John and sat down opposite, his smile fixed and a little too intense. "I thought it would be nice with the lamb."
Sherlock offered a grunt and turned to the paper. For a moment John thought he was going to let his dinner go cold but the long fingers located a fork and John watched as dinner disappeared behind the paper. He ate his own, resigned to his own company at the table and wished he'd remembered to turn the telly on. He grabbed his book and turned to the page he'd left earlier and before the end of the chapter, Sherlock flung the fork back to the plate and flounced away from the table.
John paused and looked over at Sherlock's departing frame. "Thanks for dinner."
Sherlock turned slightly and frowned at John. "I didn't make dinner."
"No, I made it for you," said John. "You don't usually miss sarcasm."
"I didn't miss it," said Sherlock. "You seem awfully bothered by this. Is it your birthday?"
"No," said John and waved a hand. "Forget it. I just won't bother."
Sherlock shrugged and walked away and John stared at the book. The book was interesting and John liked it a lot and he was a damn good cook and Sherlock never appreciated him at all. He never said a single kind thing and it shouldn't bother John at all, he was better than this. He was the superior one emotionally. He knew it. The world knew it and John shouldn't be at all pissed off that his flatmate couldn't say thank you for something as simple as a dinner.
"The thing is," said John as Sherlock reached his bedroom door. "I cooked that for you."
"You often cook," said Sherlock. "You could have said if you didn't want to. We could have picked up take out."
"No, see," said John. "We couldn't pick up take out because I would be the one picking up take out because you don't do that. And anyway, I cooked. I always cook for you and I make a fantastic Sunday dinner and you never say thank you!"
Sherlock stared at him, eyebrows arched as John's hands trembled slightly against the table and he picked up the book again. He glared at the pages, reading nothing at all and the hand that pushed it down to the table was a surprise. John looked up to see Sherlock without the smirk he expected.
"Thank you for dinner, John."
"You're welcome," said John and smiled. "See, it wasn't that hard."
"Well, if you will insist on fishing for compliments."
"Fishing for..." John's eyebrows were in serious danger of disappearing under his hair line and he swallowed hard before he looked back at Sherlock. "Expecting someone, you, to say thank you isn't fishing for compliments. It's normal. It's just...it makes the world go round."
"The world goes round whether I like your dinner or not."
"I know," said John and waved Sherlock away. "Just leave it. I don't know what I was thinking."
"I've said thank you," said Sherlock. "Isn't that good enough?"
"Yes, yes, it's fine," huffed John. "Fine."
Sherlock frowned. "You only say that when it's not."
"Nope," said John and stood up. "It's fine."
"There you go again," said Sherlock. "Look, John. If you want me to make a comment every time you do something properly, I will. But, I will say I didn't know you were so desperate for approval. I shall bear it in mind."
John shook his head. "Don't bother."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What do you want from me?"
John shook his head. "Nothing."
"Oh, fine!"
"Don't start," said John and glared at Sherlock. "I just don't think you can do it."
"Do what?" asked Sherlock. "Really, if you're going to persist in not making sense, I really don't see the point of this conversation."
"Offer someone a compliment," said John and Sherlock stared and then huffed, every inch the teenager he'd been.
"I say thank you," said Sherlock and pouted when John glared.
"Name one occasion."
"Less than five minutes ago."
"That doesn't count," said John. "You just don't. In fact, I bet you can't."
"Of course I can," said Sherlock. "I just did."
"No," said John. "I bet you a month's worth of dinners, that you can't give a compliment."
"I can-"
"Not take out, either. You make me dinner for a month if you can't give a compliment to someone. Anyone. Every day for a month."
"What?"
"And you have to mean it," said John. "No faking it. You have to say it and it has to be genuine and if you can't do that, I get dinner made for me, by you, for a month."
"This is ridiculous, John."
"Nope, this is a dare," said John and grinned. "I bet Sherlock Holmes can't give someone a compliment every day for a month."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Which month?"
"It's February first," said John. "This one."
Sherlock huffed. "And what do I get?"
"Hmm?"
"When I win. What do I get?"
"I don't know," said John and huffed as he considered it. "You don't seem to want anything. And anyway, you can declare your own terms."
"Really," said Sherlock and smirked. "Do I have to declare them now?"
"No," said John after a second. "Because it won't matter. Because you can't do this."
"Bet your life?" asked Sherlock and chuckled at John's gaze. "Don't worry, I won't demand that."
"Fine. Are we on?"
Sherlock stuck his hand out and John shook it. He grinned as he looked up at his best friend and licked over his bottom lip. "We're on."
Sherlock nodded and raised a hand to tick off a point. "I've done today."
"Nope. Didn't count," said John and shook his head hard. "You just said it to placate me. You just don't like roasts."
"I don't mind them."
"Exactly," said John. "Not a compliment."
Sherlock pouted and sat down at the table, bottom lip plump and looking more childish than he had any right to. "This is unfair."
"No, it's what you agreed to," said John and picked up the book. "I fancy a curry tomorrow. You'll have to go shopping."
Sherlock huffed and for a full minute said nothing at all. He looked round the kitchen and then back to John again. The smile seemed to spill across his lips and John looked up at him, eyebrow raised and book still in hand. "Go on then."
"You have a very firm handshake," said Sherlock and nodded. "It's a confident and reassuring grip."
John giggled. "I don't think you can compliment me on my grip."
"Is that not allowed?"
"Just..." John tried hard to get a handle on the giggles and found it far too difficult. "Okay, so you think I have a good grip."
"A good handshake," said Sherlock and hesitated. "That counts."
"You meant it?"
"Of course," said Sherlock. "You have a very good handshake, John. You would be the person of choice if I ever required anyone to give me a handshake."
John grinned. "Oh, that's just too easy," he said and sat upright at the table. "Compliment accepted."
Sherlock beamed. "Can I go now?"
"Yes, yes, please do," said John. He peeked over the top of the book as Sherlock headed back to his bedroom and smiled. Sherlock might be capable of many things but he'd never be able to do this in a hundred years, much less a month. He could already see something in Sherlock's walk, an odd bit of determination and probably annoyance at having been caught like this, just a little twitch of his shoulders that clued John in. He was an avid watcher, the expert in all things Sherlock, though no-one would ever ask him more than, 'is he always like that?'.
The answer to that question is simple from John's perspective. Sherlock is always like Sherlock, which means that anything can be like him, especially if it dismissed tiny social niceties and dispensed with anything that made other people's lives easy. But John's life was a battlefield and he had banished just existing in exchange for living. He lived a hundred lives every day and it was rare that the little things bothered him. When they did, he had to find outlets and today's dare is enough.
It's better than usual, because this one included Sherlock and John lived, breathed and fought for Sherlock every second. He accepted that some time ago, along with the knowledge that everyone assumed it meant they were doing more than just living together. Although he'd stopped protesting otherwise, things hadn't changed and while John believed that being assumed to be a couple wasn't the worst thing, it had put a serious dent in his dating career. Still, in exchange there were interesting and exciting things and being able to watch Sherlock attempt to compliment someone, anyone, was a good start.
*****
The next day, Mrs Hudson made them scones and Sherlock told her that they're tasty. He offered John a quick look and John nodded in return. Day two and he'd managed a good compliment. John ticked it off on the back of a notepad and decided that Sherlock might make it through a week, provided people continued to offer him enough opportunity. Sherlock was very good at spotting places and people he could use, but John believed a week might be Sherlock's limit.
Still, the second of February had been a good day for Mrs Hudson and John thought her smile was beautiful.
The day after that, Sherlock told Lestrade that his car was an efficient and well chosen machine. Lestrade looked briefly confused, but Sherlock elaborated and explained that given the detective inspector's budget and living circumstances, the car was ideally suited and that Lestrade had made a clever and smart choice purchasing it. He smirked at John when Lestrade, encouraged, offered to take him for a drive. John grinned and couldn't meet Sherlock's gaze when Lestrade insisted on driving them both home, extolling the car's virtues as they pulled up to 221.
John giggled at Sherlock when he drew himself up outside their house and shook his head. "I didn't know he'd go on," he said. "Surely I can be spared tomorrow."
"Nope, one a day," said John. "But I'll admit that was pretty good. You made him happy."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And is that all anyone wants to be? Happy?"
"Most people, yeah," said John and opened the door. "You did well."
"Oh shut up," huffed Sherlock and stomped off to his room.
Molly was the unlikely recipient of the next compliment. Sherlock said her notes were neat and that she had legible handwriting. John cleared his throat and Sherlock added that her penmanship was very good and that he relied on her ability to catalogue their results. Molly had stared at him before hurrying off to fetch crisps and coffee, but the compliment was felt and John thought it stayed just this side of promising her anything more. Sherlock pouted at having to elaborate, but Molly's day had been made and the case was solved shortly afterward.
It did of course mean that the following day Sherlock had no one but John to talk to. John busied himself cleaning for much of it. Sherlock bored meant a considerable amount of destruction and John thought anyone that petulant should have to deal with it themselves. He shopped, he chatted to mates over a beer and when he got home that night, he found Sherlock squatting on his chair, fingers clasped together and a frown untidying his forehead.
"Have you been there all day?"
"No," said Sherlock. "I had breakfast."
"Oh good," said John. "Glad you've had a full day."
"I've been thinking."
"That's news."
"Thinking about this," said Sherlock and tugged his dressing gown closer. "If I don't see anyone, it shouldn't count."
"But you choose not to see anyone," said John and waves his free hand. "And you can't compliment me on my handshake again."
Sherlock huffed. "I still mean it."
"Yeah, but you've done that one." John walked into the kitchen and quickly put the shopping away. "You could always go out."
"Staying in."
"Then find something about me you like," said John, entirely matter of fact as he pushed the bags in the cupboard. "Go on, you can find something."
Sherlock stared at him, his nose wrinkled and his hands clutching the arms of the chair. John walked back into the sitting room, half expecting Sherlock to say something about the new jacket he'd bought. But he was faced with a persistent, almond eyed gaze and not a single word. He rolled his eyes as he walked out of the room and showered quickly, prepared to dress again and head out for a drink with the boys. John wrapped his dressing gown round himself and casually toweled his hair as he walked back through the kitchen again.
He expected his flatmate to be in the same position and jumped when Sherlock stepped in front of him and reached for the towel.
"What are you doing?" asked John as Sherlock gripped the fabric. "My hair's wet. You want one, you go get your own instead of borrowing mine."
"Your hair," said Sherlock and John frowned.
"What about it?"
"I like it," said Sherlock.
"What?"
"I like the texture," said Sherlock and reached out, towel rubbing lightly over the drying strands as John stared at him. "And the colour. I like the silver in the blond. It's very attractive, John."
John blinked and lifted his fingers to touch where Sherlock's hand gripped towel and hair against his head. "Have you been drinking?"
"Not since Sunday," said Sherlock. "You said find something about you I liked. And I like your hair."
"Right," said John and half smiled before he took the towel back. "Well that's...that's quite a compliment."
"It counts?" asked Sherlock and John nodded and stepped back, tightening his dressing gown.
"Yes," said John. "That counts." He cleared his throat and gestured back to the kitchen. "I'll just put the kettle on then, shall I?"
Sherlock nodded and John turned on his heel, tea grabbed immediately as he tried to process the past couple of minutes. It definitely counted and was far from unpleasant, but it was unusual. Sherlock, touchy feely though he was round John, had never come close to playing geisha before. John rested his hands on the edge of the counter as he tried to think and could only come up with the dare as a reason why Sherlock had said those things. He'd pushed him and Sherlock was inventive, that was all.
Mystery solved, he poured out tea and walked back to the sitting room where Sherlock had finally relaxed into his seat and turned the telly on. John settled down and sipped from his cup, sneaking the occasional glance at his flatmate and noticed that Sherlock's brow had settled down again. All was clearly fine at 221b and John lifted his free hand to touch his hair. It had dried and settled into the scruffy state that always needed a brief brushing to stay in place. Certainly he didn't have remarkable hair, but John always knew when Sherlock lied and this time the man had been very truthful.
He drank deep and relaxed in his seat as Sherlock idly twirled a curl round his finger. "Well," said John, "you're going to have to go out tomorrow. You can't just pick me again."
"That wasn't in the rules," said Sherlock.
"Well, it took you all day to come up with my hair," said John and frowned again, aware of the texture and moreover how Sherlock had been almost kissing close when he touched. It was intimate, even Sherlock must have realised that and John licked his bottom lip. "You'll struggle tomorrow."
"I'll be fine," said Sherlock and settled in his seat with a smile. "I plan ahead."
"It has to be true," said John and Sherlock grinned over his tea.
"Not a problem."
Leaving John to wonder if the detective could make it longer than a week if he got really inventive.