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It sat in the middle of the table, an insurmountable obstacle, the final barrier on the path to complete domestic bliss. Its mouth was wide open, inviting. The sticky terrain inside the glass walls had hardened, almost int o a crust. John’s spoon was lodged in it, like a flag on the moon, one small step for the canned preserves industry, one giant leap towards his happiness. He wanted to bring it closer, but it was just out of reach, and he didn’t want to make it too obvious, when they were both aware of it, both staring each other down, both wary. Because though his spoon was inside it, it was only stuck in a thin coating of the stuff still clinging on for dear life at the bottom of the jar. The label said, two of the most beautiful words in the English language: BLUEBERRY JAM.
“John.” said Sherlock, breaking the tense silence, and observing John’s intense glare directed at an inanimate object. John only looked at him.
“We’re almost out of jam,” he observed. There. It was out in the open. Sherlock pretended that the news came as a surprise to him. He leaned forward, and extended his fingers towards the silver handle of the spoon—
“Then you won’t mind if I finish it off?” he asked, fingertips trying to get a hold on the end of the spoon, trying to scrape some jam off the bottom. John felt his palms go sweaty.
“I SAID NO, SHERLOCK!” John grabbed the jar away from his grabby fingers and cradled it to his chest.
“John, what the—”
“You ALWAYS finish off the jam, and then I have to buy more, since you refuse to do the bloody shopping!” he set the jar back down forcefully. Causing the spoon to dislodge and clatter around the container like a jumping bean. Sherlock said nothing.
“Hoo-hoo,” said Mrs, Hudson, knocking on their door and coming in, “you’re making quite a racket. Having a little domestic, are we?”
“Oh,” said John, “oh, no, thank you, we’re—” John started to say, but Sherlock interrupted.
“John, did you know you’ve got jam on your cheek?”
“I do have? Where?” John rubbed at his face. Sherlock scraped jam from the jar and smudged it on John’s face.
“You prick,” said John, and smeared some on Sherlock’s nose.
“Please behave, you two,” scolded Mrs. Hudson fondly. Soon, they were up, fake jousting with jam spoons, jam like war paint all over their faces.
“Ah, Doctor,” said Sherlock, sitting down, pretending to clutch at a stab wound. John sat next to him and kissed him on the cheek.
“Oh now really boys, at my time of life…”
“Oh, hush, Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock, “there now, John. We’ve both finished the last spoonful.” John gazed wistfully at the now-empty jam jar. “You know,” said Sherlock, “I’m in need of some fresh air, and the farmer’s market just got a fresh shipment of someone’s favourite flavour…”