Time: N/A. (Though for all intents and purposes it is morning.)
This morning, as with many mornings, Gabe's first thought was one word. This one word was 'coffee.' He carefully extricated himself from his and Jeannot's bed, making sure not to wake his love as he did. He left the room quietly and went down the stairs, looking for any new room, hopefully one containing a coffee-maker and some grounds. As luck ((or possibly the BC's inherent MKCSR powers)) would have it, the first room he decided to explore was the kitchen, the coffee-maker on the counter like a gift from G-d. He only had to look through two cupboards before finding the coffee grounds and cups, and he set about making it, humming Chelsea Hotel #2 very loudly to himself. Once done, he sat upon the counter, impatiently watching it percolate.
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"I'm sure I don't know," Watson said automatically, slightly flustered. "It certainly doesn't sound like you."
Silence reigned for a moment. Holmes said, "Are you going to throw your shoe at me?"
Watson swallowed and shook his head. Holmes indicated the coffee pot, and Watson took a mug, poured himself some, and went to stand near Holmes, although a safe distance.
This made Watson choke on his coffee, so it was really only natural that Holmes reached out to pat him on the back. Oddly enough, however, his hand remained there long after Watson's coughing had subsided.
A very large and very sick part of him wanted very seriously to make popcorn.
Holmes's eyebrows were well above his hairline by now. "I approve vigorously of this course of action," he said, his throat going slightly dry.
"And I you," Watson replied quietly.
They were very close together now, Holmes bending his head to be level with the doctor.
"The medical business is just so very," said Watson, and Holmes kissed him once, gently, on the mouth.
"Bad?" asked the detective.
"Very bad," Watson agreed, took Holmes by the collar, and kissed him back.