Summary: In which Sherlock, having been injured on a case, lazes about in 221B. In an attempt to alleviate his boredom, he follows his favourite army doctor around. Not-slash! Fluffy fic. Also, as the title suggests, much invasion of personal space on Sherlock's part (that includes cuddling) is involved in this fic.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of its characters. Sadly. I also don't own Sherlock's warped perception of what is considered adequate personal space and what simply warrants a creeped out 'Sod off!'. Then again, this perception probably only applies to one John Watson.
Warnings: There aren't really any 'cept that you might feel the inane urge to cuddle a fictional character (namely, Sherlock or John) later on but oh well, don't we all?
Author's note: So I've been thinking of how much of a prat an injured Sherlock can be and then I started thinking about how adorable it'd be if Sherlock is bored enough to follow John around the flat (like an overgrown puppy) while resting from an injury from a case, considering John is one of the only people who actually interests him. Then this fic is born! I know I should be working on my multi-chapter fics but I'm growing rather fond of penning down these one-shots. Well, let's see where this leads, shall we?
Now, on with the story!
Invasion of Personal Space
"John."
"One moment, Sherlock."
(He was currently typing out a blog post on his laptop and didn't appreciate being interrupted for anything short of exploding bombs or psychopathic madmen.)
"Joooohn." More insistent this time.
(Drawing out the one syllable that constitutes his name; not a good sign, John thought.)
"What is it? And don't tell me it's to get your phone because I distinctly remember putting it on the table next to you five minutes ago due to the fact that you threatened to blow up the flat with your chemical experiments. Again."
It wasn't that John was unsympathetic towards his flat mate's plight. After all, Sherlock had really outdone himself this time; he had gone and broke his arm during a case. His right arm, no less. Now he was cooped up in the flat (doctor's orders) with nothing to do, switching between moaning about being bored, calling for John (rather unnecessarily, he might add) and being a prat about his broken arm in general. Of course, nothing short of resourceful, Sherlock had, in the past two hours, tried doing what he passed as stimulating activities (namely violin-playing and experimenting) with just one arm.
The results were, obviously, less than savoury.
Sherlock had started off with plucking his violin, but apparently as dissatisfied with the sounds as John was (much more annoyance and exasperation on John's part, though), he attempted to play the violin normally, but with his non-dominant hand. The result was a handful of normal notes mixed in a mess of largely discordant, wince-worthy notes. What was more, he very nearly lost his grip on his violin and in the wake of his violin's apparent fall from his shoulder (probably to escape the torture it was being put through, John thought), there was a mad scramble for his beloved possession and Sherlock, having typical Sherlock luck, jostled his injured arm in the process.
That didn't seem a worthy enough deterrent for his dear flat mate, though. After much chiding from John, he had retreated back to the couch sulkily but he was up and about again in a few moments. He soon disappeared sneakily into the kitchen and there was much scuffling and tinkering to be heard. John had been perusing newspaper and hadn't realised just what his flat mate was up to until there was a loud boom and smoke started emitting from the kitchen. John had leaped from his seat, rushing into the kitchen with much worry for his already injured friend. It turned out that one of the glass beakers had shattered from whatever chemical reaction the vile concoction his flat mate had come up with caused. As fate had it, Sherlock had now multiple, albeit shallow, cuts on his left hand, courtesy of several flying, wayward glass shards.
Ushered back onto the couch by one rather irate and worried John Watson, Sherlock once again grew bored after examining his bandaged left hand and started pestering his flat mate. John sighed. It would seem that there was no rest for the weary indeed.
"But Joooohn, I'm bored!"
John paused from his typing to scrub a hand down his face in exasperation.
"Well, between that broken arm of yours and your brilliant mind, I'm sure you'll be able to come up with something remotely interesting that does not involve blowing up the flat or causing yourself bodily harm," John retorted back with just a hint of sarcasm.
He didn't need to turn to know that Sherlock was pouting (in that endearing manner of his, John's mind supplied) like an overgrown child.
There was a moment of silence that grew into a few minutes, and then stretched on still. John glanced out of the corner of his eye, checking to see if his flat mate was a) still alive and b) staying where he was and not trying to blow the flat up. He mentally breathed a sigh of relief as he spied a mop of curly black hair peeking out from the edge and a tangle of pale limbs (and a cast-bound right arm) draped haphazardly over the couch.
(Truth be told, he was also a little worried that his flat mate might be slightly hurt by his sarcasm. Oh sure, he could be even more sarcastic than that, but Sherlock was really like a sensitive child most of the time. This seemed to apply a lot more to what John said then anyone else.)
He leaned back into his own armchair, turning his attention back to his laptop. He sincerely hoped that his flat mate would somehow miraculously remain as peaceful and non-destructive for the rest of the day, or at least for the next few hours. He soon grew aware of someone breathing on the top of his head and an uneven pressure on his shoulders.
He almost sent his laptop spiralling to a crushing death on the ground as he yelped in a rather unsoldierly manner when he saw Sherlock behind him, left arm slung around him loosely and his broken arm resting (but not putting any weight on it) lightly on his shoulder. Breathing into his hair, no less.
After he had recovered the initial shock of having his injured flat mate creep up onto him (sometimes he swore the man was a ninja or wraith of some sort), he breathed out through his mouth, a look of utter exasperation on his face.
"Sherlock, when I said entertaining yourself, I did not mean sneaking up on me and looking over my shoulder," John explained patiently.
Sherlock just stared at him, unmoved, with a slight crease of confusion between his eyebrows.
"You said to find something interesting that does not endanger myself, anyone else or the flat. I find this rather interesting and this does not fall into the category of 'dangerous things to do', does it?"
John felt a warmth building and blossoming in his chest. It was a nice feeling, really.
It was rather flattering that his mad genius of a flat mate found observing him to be of interest. Flattering, but slightly creepy as well.
(All right, focus on the creepy part of it. It just won't do to condone the invasion of personal space when he already does it far too frequently without encouragement, John thought.)
"You find watching me interesting." It came out as more of a statement than a question, but oh well.
Sherlock hummed in acquiescence.
(Oh bollocks, how was he supposed to respond to that?)
John cleared his throat rather awkwardly. He switched off his laptop, gently easing it shut. After all, he was sure he'd probably not get any blogging done anyway.
(He was sure viewers wouldn't want to know of the slightly creepy sneaking tendencies of Sherlock Holmes. But then again... Hmmm...)
"I'll... Uh, just be making some tea then. Do you want some?"
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.
"Uh, some tea. I... Uh... Do you want some tea?" John repeated, rather frustrated as his sudden inability to speak without tripping over his words.
Sherlock shook his head, his crown of dark curls bouncing against his forehead.
Then, as if it was an afterthought, "But my arm hurts. A little."
John frowned slightly. Sherlock's perception of a little pain usually equates to a rather large amount of pain and discomfort.
"Alright, I'll get you some Panadol. You can swallow it down with some tea."
Sherlock looked like he was about to protest but shut his mouth at John's pointed look. He trotted meekly (or as meekly as he could get) behind John as he bustled about preparing the two cups of tea.
(Bunch of severed fingers, nope, wrong cupboard. Expired jar of jam, nope. Ah, tea bags. Sod it, why must they be at the highest compartment? Lord knows for what reason. Probably to make space for whatever grisly body parts Sherlock had stored in the cupboard.)
John shot him a glance full of exasperation mixed with fondness as Sherlock hovered behind him while he reached for the tea bags. Rather unsuccessfully, he might add. John sighed. Just as he balanced rather precariously on the tips of his toes, hand outstretched for the tea bags, he felt a long arm snake around his waist, pulling him down. Embarrassed to say, John let out a rather undignified yelp.
"It doesn't make sense for you to go to so much trouble to get the tea bags if someone of considerably taller stature can do so for you effortlessly," Sherlock said by way of explanation, releasing his left arm from his grip on John as he reached up and grabbed two tea bags from the top compartment of the cupboard, unflinching despite the fact that the healing cuts on his left hand were probably smarting.
(John thought that he ought to feel offended that his flat mate had more or less insulted his lack of height in a roundabout way, but all he felt was a fluttery feeling of fondness for his flat mate.)
Plopping the tea bags into the water-filled cups, Sherlock glanced up to see that John was still looking rather shell-shocked at his actions, with his eyebrows creased and mouth slightly parted.
"Oh, just because I broke one arm, it doesn't mean I can't do anything of any use," Sherlock huffed, breaking off into a half-glare, half-grimace at his broken right arm.
His reaction to pain seemed to jolt the doctor out of his trance. He quickly added sugar to one cup of tea (for Sherlock) and milk to the other (for himself), snagged a box of Panadol and all but ushered (a.k.a. pushing gently and firmly) Sherlock back into the living room and onto the couch. After much protests and whining (Sherlock) and staring-down and chiding (John), Sherlock swallowed two pills of Panadol with a gulp of tea and flopped dramatically onto the couch, sulking, leaving the rest of his tea untouched.
(Sometimes, John swore that the man would be the death of him.)
John flopped far less dramatically onto the armchair nearby, sipping his tea and trying to continue his blog post. Trying, being the keyword. Because, you see, his flat mate (yes, the one with the broken arm) was making some rather pained moaning noises despite having taken a couple of Panadol pills and there was a constant stream of mutters and grumbling from Sherlock's corner. John found himself typing, then jabbing at the 'backspace' button and re-typing again. Rinse, lather, repeat.
His annoyance steadily grew over the minutes and he glanced up from his laptop screen, ready to give Sherlock 'The Look'.
(But he didn't. He found that he couldn't.)
Sherlock was staring at him, beautiful blue-grey-green eyes clouded with pain, a slight pout on his lips. His curly mop of hair was tousled and a few strands hung over his eyes. That is to say, Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was looking all the world like an adorably petulant child who just got a paper-cut.
John paused, a slight half-hearted frown creasing his eyebrows but found that he couldn't proceed any further into the realm of 'annoyed-pissed-off-so-just-sod-off-Sherlock!' mode.
"Oh, scooch over," John finally relented, sighing.
He placed his laptop on a nearby table, his blog post momentarily forgotten as he made to move to the couch which Sherlock was currently occupying. The ragdoll *ahem* Sherlock scooted to the right side of the couch, curling up slightly into a ball as he cradled his broken, in-a-cast arm to himself. John snagged the remote for the television as he plopped onto the recently vacated space on the left side of the couch. Flipping the television on, he surfed through the channels, finally stopping on the news channel. Leaning back and throwing his arms over the couch, John glanced at the Sherlock-shaped lump next to him.
(Must be rather uncomfortable, folding his limbs up like that, he thought.)
The man's limbs (not counting his broken arm) were practically spilling over his side of the couch, but he remained curled up, motionless except for the strands of hair moving to and fro, courtesy of his even breaths.
"You can move closer here, if you want," John said somewhat casually in an offhanded manner.
No response from his curled-up flat mate.
"I won't bite you, you know," John tried again, rolling his eyes at his flat mate's lack of response.
John sighed, turning his attention back to the news. Something about a possibility of heavy rain over the next couple of days.
(Between the heavy downpour and Sherlock's broken arm, it looked like they won't be gallivanting around London for the next few days. John sincerely hoped that it was true. If Sherlock so much as tried to set foot out of the flat for a case before his arm healed, so help him but John would use whatever force necessary to keep him at home.)
John was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't realise what his flat mate was doing until he felt a mop of curly hair pressed against his jumper-clad chest. He glanced down to see Sherlock's upper torso on his lap, nose buried in his jumper, bandaged left hand clutching lightly at his shoulder.
(Was Sherlock inhaling the scent of his jumper? It was all very weird but very nice at the same time.)
He didn't even realise it but he soon found himself playing with Sherlock's dark curls as he watched (or pretended to watch) the news playing out on the television screen. Sherlock made a humming noise of sorts, eyelids fluttering sleepily.
"Alright there, Sherlock? Does your arm still hurt?" John asked quietly over the drone of the television.
There was a moment of silence before Sherlock murmured, "Still hurts a bit. But it feels better now. This helps."
If the way Sherlock nuzzled his head towards his hand was any indication, John was pretty sure 'this' didn't mean the Panadol pills he took a little over half an hour ago.
John felt his mouth quirk into a small smile. Perhaps having a flat mate with little to no concept of personal space wasn't that bad after all, especially if said flat mate didn't mind cuddling or being cuddled. He could live with that. Really, he could.
Needless to say, this scene repeated itself several times with John always watching some boring drivel of a television programme under the pretext of cuddling his flatmate.
Okay, I'm vaguely aware that this might pass off as slash to some people but believe me, it didn't start out like that. I certainly didn't mean for it to be... Oh well. It just sort of... Ran away from me. *sheepish grin* Anyway, I hoped you guys enjoyed this. Don't forget to review, eh? :)
Cheers,
Rainflower