John trudges up the stairs to the flat after a rather exhausting day at the surgery to find that Sherlock has returned from the crime scene that John left him at early this morning. He's in an exceptionally foul mood. Lying in the center of the rug.
"Stop walking so heavily, John. Your footsteps are making my head pound even more."
John quickly pauses to remove his shoes, and continues walking, conscious of the weight of his tread, in socked feet into the kitchen. He turns on the faucet to fill the kettle, but shuts it back off, deciding to question Sherlock on his mood.
"Why are you lying on the floor?" he sighs.
"Lump," Sherlock replies monotonically.
"What?" John asks, now doubly confused.
Sherlock slows his voice and raises it to a clearly mocking, saccharine pitch. "The. couch. has... A. Lump. in. the... cushion." Then his voice snaps back to its usual baritone, "Honestly, John. Do I have to think for you?"
John turns back to the faucet, regretting his question. "I don't know how you expect me to reconstruct your entire thought process when you only provide me with one word. Besides, the lump has been there for almost a week."
"And it's been insulting me with its interruption of my comfort the entire time. I'm going to need you to perform surgery on the cushion to remove the limp, John. I've already gathered all the tools you'll ne-"
"Sherlock. No. Stop." John commands. Sherlock stops short and John continues, "I know it's not the lump in the damn cushion that's got you in this mood. If it was, you'd have been complaining about it all week. It's something else. Tell me, please, so I can help."
"John, I hardly think I need your assistance in this. It's a small matter." Sherlock moves for the first time since John arrived, moving his hand as if he could swat John away.
"It is not a small matter if it has you disgruntled over a minute lump in the couch. Plus, let me remind you of our agreement. We need to tell each other these things. We can't let the shit that bothers us out there interfere with us in here."
Sherlock rolls toward John, onto his stomach. The right side of his face is smooshed by the floor, making his mumble of "Fucking Anderson," nearly unintelligible. The matter of fact tone of voice carries though.
John can't help himself chuckling a bit, despite the insensitivity to something clearly upsetting. (Sherlock's lack of tact is clearly beginning to rub off on John.) Sherlock has recently begun referring to Anderson solely as Fucking Anderson. Except in Anderson's presence - John has been able to convince him of the inherent rudeness in that.
John controls himself, and asks "What did he do this time? Breathe within the same room as you?"
Sherlock lifts his head, unsmooshing his face and clarifying his voice, "Well, yes. But he always does that. No. It was worse. I don't want to talk about it." He turns his head away from John, and drops his face back on the floor.
John relents; he knows Sherlock will talk when he's ready to. "Okay, then. I'm making tea, you want a cup?"
"Yes," comes another muffled reply.
John turns away, and holds the kettle under the faucet, filling it enough for two. After setting it down and plugging it in to boil, he gets the milk from the fridge and the sugar from the cabinet, and brings those over to where he'll prepare the tea. He pauses. John could have sworn he drank the last of the milk this morning. He lifts the jug and is halfway into his turn towards Sherlock, when a deep, muffled voice announces, "Yes, John. I got the milk."
John decides he doesn't want to press for an explanation this time and returns to watching the kettle begin to boil water. He reaches up to the top shelf of the cabinet to grab two cups when long, warm hands grip at his hips.
John slowly lowers the cups to the counter before he is pressed into its edge by the man behind him. For being so slim, Sherlock does an exceptional job at completely enveloping John as he snakes his arms all the way around John's waist and pulls them closer. The kettle is boiling, so John - not for the first time - momentarily disregards the Sherlock attached to him and pours the water into the two cups. He equips each with a teabag and begins to wait. And then it happens.
Sherlock hunches down to rest his chin on John's shoulder, huffing out a breath. Those long fingers crawl their way up John's torso to where his shirt is buttoned under his neck. Slowly, Sherlock undoes each button and finally removes John's button-up, leaving him in a simple white tee. Sherlock's breath is warm against John's ear as he whispers, "Bedroom."
John hesitates a second, not knowing where this is going, so he decides to ask. "Yours or mine?"
"Mine, John. That's what I need right now." He pulls away, letting his fingertips trail across John's ribs as he removes his hands.
John grips one of Sherlock's hands and allows himself to be led down the hall into Sherlock's room. He helps Sherlock remove his shirt and trousers, leaving him in his pants, before maneuvering him down onto his stomach on the bed. John discards his own trousers for mobility's sake, before straddling Sherlock's thighs. John reaches into the side table drawer for the tube of lotion Sherlock keeps there. He puts the bottle in the warmer and grips Sherlock's shoulders, beginning to knead. Sherlock lets out a content sound. He continues to administer light touches as they wait.
John leans down to place a soft kiss at the base of Sherlock's neck, then reaches over to retrieve the now warm tube. He squeezes some into his hand before beginning to massage Sherlock's back in earnest.
"Relax," John whispers, "you're so tense."
"Mmmm." is the only response.
Continuing to work Sherlock's back, John pries. "I wish I knew why..."
"Hmph. Shut up, John. After."
And John does just that, continuing his ministrations until Sherlock's muscles are slack and John is suspicious he might have fallen asleep. A small, light snore confirms this. John runs his hands down Sherlock's back once more before getting up.
He crawls next to Sherlock, pulling the blanket over them both. Sherlock shifts in his sleep, nestling back into the curve of John's body. John wraps his arm around Sherlock's waist to pull them closer together, before dozing off himself.
John is awaked in the darkness by Sherlock shaking his shoulder and whispering for him to wake up. John slowly opens his eyes, before closing them again determining it's all the same.
"John!" Sherlock whisper-shouts.
"What?" John groans; he looks at the clock. The numbers glow 2:13 am. John thinks that he would be content to go right back to sleep.
"You wanted to know the root of my mood earlier," Sherlock states. John guesses the only reason for the absence of condescendence is that John is half-asleep.
"Yes. I did. Tell me, would you?" John becomes more alert.
"Well, you know it was fucking Anderson. And you know that the crime scene I was at involved a woman who hoarded cats and small dogs, yes?"
"Mm-hm."
"Shortly after you left, Lestrade heard a sound coming from inside one of the walls. It was a high-pitched mewling sound, broken up by occasional more desperate noises. I suggested we get some tuna to lure the cat out. There was plenty in the pantry at the scene. Anderson went to get it, as I told him. But he came back with a bag of dog treats instead. He claimed the animal in the wall was a small dog, he thought a Yorkshire Terrier. I laughed. Then a small dirty ball of fur worked its way out of a hole. And barked for the first time in the past hour. That's when I left to come home."
John bursts into a fit of laughter. His eyes have adjusted enough to the darkness to see the scowl of Sherlock's face. This only makes him laugh harder, until Sherlock climbs atop him, pinning him to the bed. Sherlock lowers his head, teeth grazing the sensitive skin below John's ear.
"You, John, are the only person who I will not physically harm for laughing at my fallacy in that instance."