On cuddling and the effects of Alcohol
(Also, the absence of milk and a tipsy consulting detective)
*disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, the show, nor Benedict Cumberbatch, or the delightfully cuddly Martin Freeman. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC do.
JohnLock fluff aplenty.
Sherlock was contemplating the glass of burgundy wine. What a peculiar word, burgundy. He already partook in the novelty act of drinking and small talk, though small talk for him was insulting a person every time they said something, so he decided to sit out and pretend to listen while composing a piece in his mind palace. The man shifted uncomfortably in his seat, a sofa cushion pressed uncomfortably into the side of his neck. Sherlock, the ever awkward sociopath, was tired of John's little get- together. As much as he liked to observe the interactions of humans under the effect of alcohol, this was becoming rather…boring.
"John."
This went unnoticed or ignored in the midst of murmurs and soft giggles from an amusing joke someone had told- most likely from Lestrade, who was surprisingly entertaining while tipsy.
"John."
"Jaaaawwwwn. John. Johnny. Johnjohnjohn. JOHN. Watson. John Watson. Johnny Wat-"
"WHAT, SHERLOCK?!"
The man in question blinked, mildly startled at the sudden outburst. He ran a hand that was not hindered by a glass of the foul liquid through his curly hair. Really, who would drink this stuff and call it good? If he wanted to get drunk, it would be on something sweet and VERY strong. Why was Jo-
"Sherlock! What did you want? Really, if you needed my attention, would it be so hard to at least tell me what you wanted before zoning out?"
"Cuddles, John. I want cuddles. It's lonely and cold with nobody sitting by me, and it's awfully large and empty here on the sofa."
John Watson stared at this strange request. Even after being his flatmate for several months, Sherlock still managed to surprise him. It couldn't hurt, though. John stood, leaving the circle that was composed of Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. The three watched him make his way around stacks of books, paper, a skull, and five open packages of raspberry flavored Jammy Dodgers before sinking down beside Sherlock. Sherlock shot an evil glare at them, although in his slightly drunk, disheveled state, he only managed a bleary glance that was comparable to that of a sleepy puppy. The audience turned back to their conversation, leaving John and Sherlock alone to…cuddle. And cuddle, they did. Sherlock scooted his manly behind closer to John, and pulled his upper torso flush to his, the hated glass of wine balanced precariously on the arm of their couch. The taller man maneuvered his body in such a way that he could rest his cheek on John's shoulder. John sighed, and let it be, listening to the drone of conversation while Sherlock nodded away. He was cuddly, he noticed. Very muscular and solid, from his days in the army, but pleasantly pliant. Watson was like a bear. Albeit a short, blond and graying bear. No, not a bear. A hedgehog, but without the prickles. Yes, His dearest friend was a hedgehog. Sherlock squirmed, and fell asleep with the tickling sensation of the vibrations coming from Watson's chest.
The morning came, with pale, watery sunlight the colour of vanilla pudding streaming in through the windows. Sherlock blinked in the evil light that just wouldn't let him sleep. How annoying. He whimpered a bit, and pulled the blanket over his face, cloaking his pale eyes and those ridiculously sharp cheekbones.
Then the smell of buttered toast and tea came floating from the kitchen. The scent grew stronger, and after twelve and a half seconds, a platter and mug came to rest on the tower of books in front of his face.
"Sherlock, breakfast. "
"Is the toast-"
"-browned on one side, bottom and side crusts cut off, and dabbed with butter in the center? Yes. I've also taken the liberty of adding four sugars to your tea, although why you would drink that sweet monstrosity is beyond me. You're welcome."
"…"
The cuddly hedgehog sighed, and left the room, presumably to read a book, noted the detective. He stuffed his face, gulped down his very English beverage, and yelled: "Jawwwwnnn! We've run out of milk! Would you mind going out to pick some up? I need it for my experiments!"
"Do it yourself, you great lump! It's your turn to pick up the groceries and do the laundry and wash the dishes and pay the bills!"
The Sherlock sized lump wiggled, then stilled under the blanket. After two hours, sixteen minutes, and three seconds, he rose from his makeshift bed, like a beautiful phantom from beyond the grave, all white and glaring and dramatic. Mumbling murderously, he threw off the blanket in attempt to look impressive, but it tangled around his arm with a vengeance, throwing his plan off course. He hissed in annoyance and fumbled awkwardly with the cloth, in a way that juxtaposed strangely with his usual normal grace, before it slid off lifelessly and landed with a thump. Sherlock looked down with a proud smirk. Then he sighed, rolled his eyes, and gave a soft hrumph of unhappiness.
"Jaaawn, I'm BORED!"
"Go pick up the milk, then!"
"That's DULL! Why would I do something so unnecessarily mundane when I have the potential for SO MUCH MORE?!"
"FOR GOD'S SAKES, SHERLOCK! IT'S YOUR TURN TO GET THE MILK, AND YOU ARE NOT BACKING OUT!"
A growl of disdain rumbled from his throat.
"SO HELP ME, I WILL REVOKE YOUR CUDDLING PRIVILEGES IF YOU DON'T DO WHAT I SAY!"
That made an impact on Sherlock's impressive brain. He grabbed his phone, wallet (rifling through it to make sure he had money), and his keys, slamming the door behind him.
At the supermarket, he was attacked with the sights and sounds of humans, boring humans, going about their boring little lives with their boring little tasks. How he pitied the stupid things. Squinting in the fluorescent lights, he nudged through the crowd. Noticing several people holding baskets, he made his way to a stack of identical containers. Then his eyes drifted to the line of neatly parked trolleys, with their handles and small fold out seats for toddlers. Finally, something interesting, if only mildly so. Sherlock grinned, a fittingly predatory look.
Sherlock was kicked out of the supermarket eighteen minutes later, with a plastic bag containing a jug of milk, chocolate chips, and women's hygiene products, banned from going there ever again.
The door banged open, and John could hear the rustle of grocery bags.
"I'm banned from entering their store, John! Banned! I've done nothing wrong! There's nothing in the law about riding carts down aisles, or opening tampon packages to test their absorbency, or-"
This rant was cut off when he tripped over a severed foot, toes in various stages of decay.
The stomping grew louder as Sherlock tromped up the stairs, groceries neatly tucked in the kitchen.
He emerged, an unnaturally pink hue on his face, covered with a light sheen of sweat and dark curls plastered to his brow.
Watson stared.
Sherlock stared back.
He croaked something that sounded a bit like 'The banana king is dead. Long live the cupcake queen,' before collapsing into a heap of long, long limbs, elbows and knees.
The healing part of the army doctor kicked in, overtaking the small evil part that was cackling gleefully and wishing he'd filmed that spectacular- right, back to the work at hand. He crouched by the prone body, and pressed one hand to the other man's face. It was too warm. He silently cursed Sherlock for not wearing a coat in this too- bloody- cold- for- numbers weather.
After some time, and less effort than was expected(this was probably due to the fact that Sherlock rarely ate, and instead lived off of strong tea and nicotine patches), Sherlock was draped over the good doctor's bed, moaning feverishly, with a cold cloth over his hot brow and a thin blanket covering everything below his neck. And oh, yeah, he was naked with the exception of underpants, which John had to put on for him because Sherlock often went commando (mainly because he says that he couldn't find a suitably comfortable pair).
A fever. John looked at the thermometer. A fever of thirty-bloody-nine degrees. What the absolute hell.
He returned to the room, expecting to see a peaceful, sleeping Sherlock. He should have known better. The bed was empty, blankets lying at the foot and the cloth tossed disdainfully onto a lamp.
And a pair of red pants waving cheerily from the top of a bookcase.
Holmes the younger was probably roaming the house, delirious and feverish.
And naked.
REVIEWS MAKE ME HAPPY, AND A HAPPY FANFIC WRITER IS A GOOD FANFIC WRITER