I drabble alot in my head. The chances it gets down onto a computer screen, though, is often slim; but seemingly, this seems to be going well so far! A little pointless but cute oneshot fluffy ball of whatever... For the sake of kittens, scarves, and John!
"Do you people normally do this?"
"Huh?" Lestrade looked up, squinting at the tall man stood in front of the window. The expression did nothing good for Sherlock's opinion of the inspector; brushing but a cool smirk over Sherlock's face as he observed this little wonder- two hirsute grey eyebrows knitted together in confusion, and his little beady eyes narrowing on Holmes, as he waited for the patronising comment.
"Ha," came a voice, and for a moment, Lestrade found himself considering that he might have not been in the firing line of that question- at least, until John stepped out of the kitchen, stepping over a dozen empty bottles withot taking his eyes of Sherlock. Lestrade waited for the sarcastic comment again, but it seemed there had been a misunderstanding, as the detective's eyes flicked between Greg and John.
"Why is it you two always seem to have some kind of private joke going on or something?" Lestrade sighed, pickig himself up off the floor and dusting off his knees with an air of disgust, despite the floor being very clean.
"Whatever the joke is, only John gets it. Unless it's the other joke," Sherlock drawled.
"What's the other joke?"
"Who, that is. And the answer being you."
"Cheers," Greg frowned, doing his best to stay cool, finding himself unnerved by Sherlock's wit, even though, in this case, the joke was more plain insulting than smart-arse. A failure on Sherlock's part to stoop to such a level- not that Lestrade dare point that out.
"So..." John piped up, "I wouldn't embarrass you if I told you what I was laughing at?"
"That question makes no sense," Sherlock said, turning away again and flicking the curtains. Lestrade was pretty sure he'd lost the conversation already- he'd yet to hear a single thing about what they were actually there for, ie, the case, since Sherlock had strolled through the door of the dusty apartment with John, as ever, following up the rear. And now the detective just kind of... stood there, looking immeasurably bored, gazing out of the frosty glass down on to what looked like a dark terraced street, illuminated only by the odd flickering streetlight and the slight glow that still came from the setting sun, which could be seen only over the rooftops across the way. Lestrade could see Sherlock watching a group of youths pass, blinking at them, but he didn't seem to be thinking about anything.
Which was why it surprised the inspector when he spun on his heel and strolled across the carpet, walking straight over the coffee table cratered with mug rings, and past John, back into the kitchen whence his friend had just come, leaving John and Lestrade slightly bemused, as ever, at Sherlock erratic behaviour.
Sherlock popped his head back round the door frame.
"You don't need to correct my sloppy grammar," he said to John, with the slightest hint of a grin.
"You didn't say anything..." Lestrade was lost again.
"He asked if "you people" normally do this," John explained, while Sherlock disappeared again. Lestrade made a little "o" shape with his mouth, and shrugged.
"John!" came a yell, from inside the kitchen. "Playtime's over, get in here!"
"Wait, I still don't get what you were asking about," Lestrade huffed, following John through the doorway of the kitchen, only to have the door slammed in his face.
"You don't need to try to impress him, you know," Sherlock muttered as he set about the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards and drawers loudly, not apparently looking for anything in particular.
"I wasn't..." John began to dissent, but held back, as, when he considered it, he hated to undermine Sherlock normally, and so, perhaps doing it in front of Lestrade had been subconciously for the effect of, as he'd said, impressing the inspector. "Sorry," he said dully, looking at the door Sherlock had just slammed.
"It's fine. You can do better than impressing him any day."
John could tell that was meant to be an insult to Lestrade, but, the way it came out, it sounded different. Sherlock paused for a moment, then, almost as if he were thinking about this (even though he never stopped to think- not because he was rash, but because his sharp mind never required the time for choices regarding everyday occurrences), and his brown eyes flicked momentarily toward John. He may have even see the detective blush at this faux pas, though it was dark where he was, bent in the shadow of the kitchen sink. If he did, though, he quickly covered up by running his finger down the handle of the lower cupboard, "Fur,"- and then opening the cupboard, "Cat food. There's still a cat living here."
Which was when John felt something up against his leg.
"Argh!" he yelped, surprised by the movement, stumbling over whatever it was and careering into the breakfast table and chairs pushed up the wall behind him, blacking out momentarily before coming round, finding himself on the floor with a tabby cat sat on his knee.
"What on Earth is going on in here?" Lestrade yelled at he swung open the kitchen door, narrowly missing John, but making an almighty bang as he smashed the back of the door into one of the chairs John had displaced in the fall, denting the wall as the chair hit it. Sherlock simply stared at the inspector, unamused, for a moment, before ignoring him and crouching down next to John.
"Are you OK?" he asked, and John nodded, trying not to frown at how obscure it sounded when Sherlock said such a thing. He then turned back to the cat, who was being friendly and walking up John's jeans to come and say hello, at which point, John's expression softened.
"Urgh. Dead woman's cat."
"Sherlock!"
"The cat is irrelevant," Sherlock shrugged, getting back up again. "Shoo," he said, but not to the cat, to Lestrade, who scowled as he turned away and continued "investigating".
"Let's go."
"Wait, are you finished?" John asked, scratching the cat's head, seemingly quite happy with it, on the floor of a murdered woman's apartment.
"Yes," came the monotonous answer. A pause. Then; "We're not taking the cat."
"Can't we?" John asked, picking the cat up in his arms and then getting to his feet clumsily. He stumbled, bad knee falling through, but there was a slender but strong arm out to steady him, so he didn't have to let go of the cat. "Thank you," he mumbled, before pointing out, "It has no owner."
"Ugly things. You're cuter than that cat."
This time, Sherlock couldn't cover up how that sounded. It had again meant to be an insult to the cat, but had gone wrong somewhere with using John as a comparison. All that was left to do was for Sherlock to turn away, almost to hide his face in the dark. "Fine," he said gloomily, deep voice cutting through the thick silence. "Keep the cat. Now can we go?"
John smiled deviously into the cat's fur. He'd always wanted a cat. Plus, he knew Sherlock secretly didn't mind- there'd been the tiniest twinkle in his eyes when he spotted the cat on John's leg.
Hurriedly, John followed Sherlock through the front room, past Lestrade and out of the front door, into the cold air.
"Wait," Lestrade sighed at John, who just nodded in acknowlegement, clutching the now slumbering cat close to himself, slightly under his jacket, in an effort to keep warm. Lestrade hung back in the doorway, leaving John an opportunity to rush down the step and after Sherlock, who was already half way down the road, holding his coat close around his slim frame, so it didn't billow out behind him as it normally did- though he wasn't walking as quickly as usual, despite the bitter cold already nipping at his nose and ears.
"What time is it?" Sherlock asked quietly.
"Seven thirty. But you won't be able to get a taxi from here."
"I didn't want a taxi."
"O... OK." So where were they going?
"Would you like me to explain?"
"Yes please," John said, wincing as his knee gave in again and he stumbled slightly.
"There was no body in that house. Not meaning that it had been moved, but obviously hat it had been discovered elsewhere. I'm not sure why Lestrade took us there. All I know about this... woman, is that she's a recovering anorexic, who hasn't returned home since yesterday, no ties, name Lyndon, OCD, ginger hair, short-ish... I think that's it." He scowled, stopping suddenly to look up at the star-jewelled sky.
"That's all?" John puffed. "That's 20 times what Lestrade and I could tell you together, and you know it. Go on."
"What do you mean, 'Go on'?"
"Tell me how you know that," John said, handing the cat forcedly to Sherlock so he could finally drop to the pavement and massage his knee. Sherlock said nothing for a few moments, holding the kitten at arm's length, before finally giving in and holding it close to his chest, where, much to his distaste, it began to purr softly.
"Elementary. There was little in the fridge and cupboards, which may not tell you enough, but there were the staples, dehydrated soup- and two types of cooking fat: 1 calorie spray fat, and a bottle of oil. The spray fat was used lots, but while the oil had been opened, it hadn't been used- still on the road to recovery. Plus, there's a supermarket 100 yards in the opposite direction," he looked behind them, "And there was milk, still, which was fresh yesterday. Which proves it was yesterday, hand in hand with the fact that the woman had a compulsive cleaning disorder- there was a dampness problem in that kitchen, hence the fur stuck to the handle that the cat runned up against. The surface was cleaned with a scourer daily, shown by the wear, but there was a little residue remaining, from a day missed- only dryed once, and the window is west facing, meaning that yesterday's sun shone through during the afternoon and evaporated the damp in the afternoon... None of it was new, if that's what you were thinking, because brand new chrome is iridescent, and the sink wasn't. However, you stepped around bottles, and I walked over a coffee table with stains on it, so not everything was as clean, meaning it was a disorder rather than general cleanliness. Lyndon was easy- it was on the post, and there was curly ginger hair on the curtains around five foot up, where she would lean."
"What about the no ties bit?"
"People with ties and anorexia don't eat Cup-A-Soup."
"...You eat Cup-A-Soup."
"How is this relevant? I have neither ties nor... I eat Pot Noodle, not Cup-A-Soup."
"What if she just didn't cook?"
"Wait... She did have ties. Maybe that's why she went out without cleaning first. Because the house was locked, Lestrade said, but she'd left in a hurry..."
He continued walking again, slower this time, absent mindedly stroking the cat. John couldn't help but notice how content Sherlock looked with it, face pale but lips curved into a thin smile that was almost a rarity on the man. It could even be defined as an oxymoron- so out of place, John realised after a moment, that he'd not followed, and had to make an awkward limping catch-up before the dirtied hem of Sherlock's coat whipped around the corner.
"Do you mind letting me keep up with your train of thought?" John asked weakly when he was again at pace with the tall detective. Sherlock directed his gaze down, a pair of cool, glazed grey pupils not watching, but observing him.
"I thought it wasn't my thought you needed to catch up with. Here, take this thing," he said, placing the cat into John Watson's arms, considerably gently, but awkwardly, which was strange- he wasn't the type of person to be awkward. It would have come much more naturally to Sherlock to simply force the cat away into his flatmates arms, but, in being concerned about, what it looked like, the cat's actual well-being, his arms became entangled in John's, and the cat attached itself to the sleeve of Sherlock's trench coat.
"Sherlock..."
"John, it's attached to me... Can you... Wait!" There was urgency in his deep tones all of a sudden, and John realised that he could hear an iPhone.
"Keep the cat for a moment..." John was firm in untangling his arms, feeling uncomfortable at having the misty breath of the taller man up against his skin. It smelt like coffee. "Which pocket?"
Sherlock didn't answer, and the phone rang again, a possibly louder and more agitating noise. John might have seen him pause to think for a moment, had they been able to see, having visibility of almost no notable value in the poorly-lit street; and the figure attempted to, again, rid himself of the cat onto John, rather than tell John where the phone was. The cat, much like John, was having none of it.
"Sherlock, where is it? You're normally so keen for me to fetch it for you...!" John hissed, exasperated, and finding himself looking round for anyone watching them. His knee twinged, but he supposed it was less important now- he still wasn't entirely sure what was going on, which had been the case since Sherlock had grabbed his coat suddenly when a text arrived and sauntered out in to the evening, leaving John to only follow out of curiosity. It must by then have been at least half-nine, John thought looking up at the street lamps, if not ten. If Sherlock would just tell him where the bloody phone was, they could...
"Back pocket," Sherlock whispered, and John sighed with relief. That was, until he realised how slim-fitting the trousers Sherlock had on were.
The phone rang for the third time.
John decided to try not to make a big deal of it, moving his coat out of the way and casually slipping his hand into the pocket, reaching with his fingers for the slender phone. Unfortunately, when he has it in his grip, it slipped, and he had to put his hand further into the pocket to retrieve it properly, which was as awkward for Sherlock as it was for John; as he seemed to have stopped breathing for a few moments.
"Sorry," John mumbled, cursing how difficult situations were always the annoyingly simple tasks that had suddenly become difficult to carry out, under pressure.
"Answer it," Sherlock murmured, not really ordering or demanding as he did normally, just... Well, John wasn't entirely sure how to look at it, but he knew, thanks to his own somewhat meagre powers of deduction, that something, even something small, was off about Sherlock.
He looked down at the caller ID, flashing incessantly at him, and frowned, brow furrowing and creasing in that way that it did all too often around Sherlock, as he sighed.
"Is everyone on your phone listed like this?" John asked, not waiting for Sherlock to throw some whimsical and most likely sly comment back at him as he picked up the phone to "That Idiot Lestrade".
"Sherlock, you're not needed anymore," came the familiar tone through the receiver. John raised one eyebrow, looking up at Sherlock, who's cheeks had gone pale in the cold. John, too, could see his own breath, as it drifted off in an artistic fashion into the dark, as he sighed.
"Sherlock?"
"I'll be sure to let him know," John replied after a moment, almost begrudgingly, and, no longer interested in why or how, he hung up on Lestrade, which surprised Sherlock, and caught his attention too.
"You're tired, John," he stated simply.
"Yes, I am," John replied, "I am tired, Sherlock. I don't get what's going on, and it's late... And we have no milk."
"It doesn't matter what's going on," Sherlock said, reverently slipping his hand up through the loop of his scarf and silently slipping it off. "You heard Lestrade; it's over." And he put the scarf around John's neck.
"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, not entirely pleased by the impassive expression on Sherlock's face as he brought his hands away from John's previously bare neck. He brought his hands up to the scarf, touching it softly, feeling awkward as Sherlock observed him, raising one short, black eyebrow in his direction.
"The case was solved easily, the thing that was confusing me was why Lestrade brought us in in the first place. And you're cold, too, I can tell by the vasoconstriction evident from your pallor."
"So you gave me your scarf?"
"Yes. You said something about friends caring, that was my caring. Take the cat," Sherlock ordered, and time, John accepted the little ball of fur without much fuss, giving him barely any time to think before he found himself looking back up at his friend and stating sadly, "But now you're cold."
Sherlock just smiled.
John realised then what Sherlock had achieved- he'd changed the topic and mellowed John, almost so John had instantly forgotten about his sore leg and Lestrade and the sudden disappearing case and being extremely tired.
"I don't care about Lestrade," Sherlock suddenly stated loudly, voice cutting through the air as he spun on his heel, coat whipping out behind him the way he liked it to. John regretted to find himself hurrying, yet again, after the tall man. "He's just too proud. But I'll let him have it, this time."
"You've lost me," John admitted, as they turned together onto the pavement running along the side of the main road. They were still heading away from the vague direction of 221B Baker Street, but they were nearing a row of shops, windows glowing with the commercial bar lighting that lit the pavement in front of them harshly, pooling over gutters filled with smashed glass and rotting leaves. Sherlock bit his lip.
"I left him a note."
"What, Lestrade? Why?" John had a bad feeling when Sherlock used such concise sentences; he was normally so eager to show off, but since they'd left the flat of the supposedly dead anorexic ginger woman, he'd lacked the will to say anything, it seemed. Or at least John thought so.
"Greg," Sherlock chuckled, as if he found the name funny, rolling it over his tongue for a moment before concluding, "I left him a note with the answer so he wouldn't be embarrassed that he called me in for what was nothing more than a suicide."
"Wait... What?"
"You heard me," Sherlock said in a monotone, and John shook his head lightly.
"No; I mean... The great Sherlock Holmes, caring? Since when did you care if Lestrade was embarrassed? He's embarrassed you on many occasion..." John paused as Sherlock's phone buzzed in his hand, and, because Sherlock hadn't noticed, John opened the text without thinking- it was, after all, only from Mycroft.
Have you talked to him yet? MH
"Sherlock?"
"So what?" Sherlock said moodily, stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, "Such a circumstance might have embarrassed me as a private detective, too. And I couldn't exactly explain it to him, no... He's too much of an idiot, he'd have to work it out for himself. Find the note. They always leave one."
"No, Sherlock, you've got a text..." John handed the phone over, avoiding the other man's piercing blue eyes looking at him under the sharp light, but following his gaze down to the phone as he read the text. No sooner had he done so, did his eyes flick back up to John's face, searching his expression, almost... worried? Why should he be worried?
"I thought you wanted me to care?" Sherlock breathed, barely twenty centimetres from the tip of John's nose.
"That text... That text... Is about me, isn't it?" John guessed. It had been something in Sherlock's eye when he read it- and he knew he was right as soon as he suggested it, because for once in his life, Sherlock's expression gave the whole game away, and he looked like the child who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"Good deduction, John Watson," he said quietly, and John shrugged, easing the tension off his shoulders. Sherlock was still really close.
"So go on then."
"What?"
"What was it you wanted to talk about?"
Sherlock turned away.
"Let's walk through the park."
"Sherlock?" John called again, but he was off, striding at some god-awful pace in the direction of the park. It was like John had upset him... And there was no way of knowing, only to regret that he had to carry the cat and run after the taller man, thankful of the scarf as the cold whipped about the hem of his jacket.
It was a good five minutes before Sherlock slowed down again, and let John and the cat catch up; by which time, true to his word, they were in the park, which was darker than the street, yet somehow seemed safer, as the lawns stretched out either side of them, protecting them.
"Did I upset you?" John asked, voice swallowed up in the expanse of the park.
"No." Sherlock didn't turn around.
"Then..."
"Mycroft was bugging me, you know. And it was his fault that Lestrade found out."
"Found out what? Damn it, Sherlock, you're going to have to explain what's going on again here, is this still about that woman...?"
"No," Sherlock interjected suddenly, turning around and stopping still. John took a timid step forward, heart pounding in his chest. Sherlock looked... vulnerable. Ever so subtly. Alot like when he was around that woman; The Woman. But also slightly upset. And exposed.
"Sher..." John stopped himself from saying his name again. He sounded stupid. But then, there was something else stopping him; like, he felt as if this was a build up to something important. "Wait..." he realised, "When you say Lestrade found out... You left him that note because you wanted to tell him something without me knowing?"
"No. The note was only about the case"
"Then... You left a note to stop him being emba- oh, you were caring because he knew something he shouldn't have from Mycroft and you didn't want Donovan and everyone else to find out?" John chuckled, but then stopped, as he saw Sherlock's eyes sparkle.
"This... Why wouldn't you want anyone to find out? Why does Mycroft know, but not me? Wait... You want me to know, but not Lestrade... Or anyone else... Did it have something to do with a case?"
"You're my blogger. You know about my cases. It has nothing to do with a case, John," he replied stiffly after a moment. John's brows furrowed in frustration.
"Are we going to spend all night playing guessing games, Sherlock?" John's voice rang out across the grass, and some wood pigeons flew out of a nearby tree in a flock with a start.
Sherlock was silent.
"There better be a god damn good reason why you've bought me here to talk about this..."
"I'm not good with words."
"You're fine with words, believe me... So you're not going to talk about it? How do you expect me to know, then? I don't want your brother abducting me off the curb tomorrow morning just because you can't say something personal to me now...!"
"How did you know it's personal?"
"You said it had nothing to do with cases. Meaning it's personal. See, I can do some deducing of my own, Sherlock," John huffed, turning away to look back from where they came, through the tall, iron-wrought gates.
Sherlock shuffled towards him, and John got the strangest air of apologeticness.
"I'm not good with these kinds of words."
"Leave a note?" John said sarcastically, a hint of bitterness charring his words. Until something brushed against his hand, and he looked to the side.
Sherlock had his eyes closed, tightly, as he held out the notes to John, and opened them as John sighed and curled his fingers around the edge of the paper, and he slipped it from the detective's grasp, turning toward the light as he smoothed it out.
"What is wrong with you this evening, hones-oh..." John stopped himself mid-sentence, as he looked down, reading the three delicately handwritten words under his breath.
"I..." Sherlock seemed to want to wish away the silence. Which really was strange, because normally it was so precious to him.
John couldn't look at him. Sure, that evening had been going weirdly; first they had to rush out of the door because of some super interesting case, then there had been nobody to study, and there had been the cat and the next thing John knew, they were in the street, dropping the case but taking the cat...
Though, he guessed, it made sense. There had been hints. Hints, ever since they'd met, but in particular, that evening, they'd been coming thick and fast, and more directly, too.
By the sounds of it, Sherlock had consulted with Mycroft about John, and Mycroft had told Sherlock he should tell John the truth, as he would (because it would help him to spy on his younger brother), but somehow Greg had got wind of the situation... Wait, John thought; firstly, Sherlock didn't consult, he was consulted, as that was his job, his essential being- and Lestrade didn't notice things. He was, as Sherlock put it, "ordinary". Just like John.
Yet whether it made sense or not, there he was. Reading and re-reading that note, and looking up at Sherlock to see if it was a joke.
It certainly wasn't. He looked something he never looked, unless he was pretending to be a priest; desperate.
"It's all alright..." Sherlock mumbled, a hint of questioning, and John realised that he was referencing what John himself had said to Sherlock when they'd first met.
How long it had been.
"Say something John," Sherlock blurted, as the shorter man stared at the note.
"R-Really?" was all he could manage.
"Really? You mean, paper wasn't legitimate enough?" There was a pause, in which Sherlock inhaled the night air sharply, and, glancing sideways, said simply, "John Watson, I love you."
But John wasn't listening, because Sherlock never listened to John when he was being serious. Sherlock always skipped ahead without precautions, and so, as John considered what reputation Sherlock was risking, he decided to give the man a taste of his own medicine, as he crashed his lips smoothly and effortlessly with the taller man's, grabbing hold of the collar of his coat to steady himself as he stood on tiptoes. He could hear the cat's steady purring from where he now held it with one arm, between them, and Sherlock's heartbeat faintly from underneath his cold skin.
His lips were so soft.
Inviting.
They were the complete opposite of the man himself.
Or at least, what other people saw of him.
John saw someone different. He broke that one kiss off, and looked up at a man no one else knew- that neither Greg nor Mycroft could understand, who cared by leaving notes, and sometimes found that the skull on the mantlepiece couldn't listen to all his problems. Who needed to feel close, even if it was only a fleeting moment. Who felt vulnerable and exposed when he displayed his affections, and therefore rarely did so. Yet still, someone who loved John. And smiled down at him, not needing an answer or any more words, in the same way John didn't need Sherlock to explain anymore.
So John smiled back.
Suddenly, there was a miaow, as the cat protested, and clawed at the nearest thing it could reach.
"Ow!" Sherlock leapt away from John, rubbing his stomach and the small flecks of blood now staining his shirt from the inside, as John wrestled for a moment with the wriggling cat until it settled again a moment later.
"That animal has got to go," Sherlock said grumpily, and John chuckled as the grown man pouted right at the cat, who simply closed it's eyes.
"It's just a scratch, you'll live."
"No, John, you don't understand," Sherlock said smoothly as John turned to walk away back down the path, "I think I need a doctor."
John couldn't help but flush as he rolled his eyes.
"Shut up, Sherlock. C'mon, let's get back... have your scarf back, you're freezing..."
And there Sherlock had it, as John subtly entwined is fingers with his own long ones, and they made their way down the frostbitten path; nervous and cold consulting detective, content but flushed doctor, and that one little cat, who they called Fred, even though John insisted it was a female.