A/N: Hello! It's great to be back. I haven't written anything for fanfic in the longest time… Criticism is appreciated, but be gentle to this returned-from-retirement writer!
To be honest, the entire point of these one shots will be so I can learn new words So each story will be based around a word I am unfamiliar with or I think needs reinforcing in the empty space where my brain is supposed to be. Perhaps I might write a full out story if this turns out well…
A/N 2: As you will see, I'm going to go overboard with sentence fragments in this story as I am trying to get a feel for them so I might be able to use them correctly in later pieces of writing.
Tacit Adj. Understood without being openly expressed; implied.
John made tea. Milk no sugar and 3 sugars no milk. Stir. Repeat daily. At first he was quite annoyed that Sherlock would simply assume that he would run himself ragged completing the house chores. After some time he tried to goad Sherlock into aiding him in some of the household tasks, but to no avail. Eventually, he was surprised, and a little depressed, to find that his ritual had become habitual. His life practically revolved around the detective.
Wake up.
Make tea.
Yell at Sherlock.
Go to work.
Argue with Sherlock on the phone.
Come home.
Glare at Sherlock.
Make tea.
Bicker with Sherlock.
Go to sleep.
Repeat.
This was how John lived his life, and, being accustomed to it, found that it didn't bother him much anymore. One day, upon waking up, John felt a tickle at the back of his throat. He bypassed his striped sweater that lay neatly folded on the dresser and headed downstairs. As he made tea, he noted that the apartment felt a little chillier than normal. When he turned around to give Sherlock his tea, an odd sight greeted him.
"Sherlock, what are you doing with all those blankets?"
The man had piled all the blankets he could find on the couch and was layering them one by one. He quickly glanced at John but said nothing.
"Fine. Whatever. Just clean it up after." He stated, knowing deep down, or perhaps not THAT deep down, that he was probably the one who would have to tidy it up anyways.
He opted for a warmer coat before heading off to work. The clinic was also frostier than he remembered. There weren't many patients to see that day, for which he was glad. The tickle in his throat had progressed to a hybrid between a clearing of the throat and a cough. At lunch he munched on the sandwich he prepared for himself the previous day, which surprisingly had not come into contact with any body parts; at least to the best of his knowledge. Swallowing had become a pain and he had to down lots of water to stop himself from choking. His phone buzzed, signaling the daily call from Sherlock.
" Yeah?" he answered, feeling a little tired.
" Would it be permissible if I were to enter your room?"
John blinked, taking a moment for the message to register. "What? What do you want from my room?"
"It is imperative that I am allowed into your room."
"That doesn't answer my question, Sherlock. Why do you need to go into my room?"
"That is irrelevant. Yes or no?"
"You better not be conducting an experiment in there. Besides, I thought you liked to text mo-," the line was cut off and John shoved the phone in his pocket with an exasperated sigh. What on earth would he have to clean when he got home?
By late afternoon he felt awful. He was coughing left and right, and his body shivered uncontrollably. By the time he was able to head home, he felt like he had spent a week in the arctic in nothing but his boxers. He had trouble inserting the key into the lock between his trembling hands and numb fingers. The short walk up the stairs felt like a marathon and taxed his lungs heavily. Upon reaching the flat, he didn't even take his coat off. He stumbled his way through the dark, collapsed onto the couch and tunnelled his way through layers of blankets, settling in at the cozy bottom. After a few minutes, the darkness of the flat made him realize that Sherlock was not home. As if the wry consulting detective had read his thoughts, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Sherlock, obviously.
On a case. SH
John set his phone on the floor, only to come in contact with something soft. He flashed the light of his phone around and was surprised to find his striped sweater. "I swear I left it upstairs…" Not questioning it, he quickly shimmied into the sweater and was able to shed his coat. He felt amazingly comfortable. If only he had a cup of… A certain smell reached his nose. He shined the light on his phone once more and smiled when he spotted a cup of steaming tea on the table. He sipped the tea and hummed in pleasure at the delicious taste with a hint of honey added in. It soothed his throat considerably. The blankets, his sweater, the tea… His phone buzzed again.
Essential that your state improves soon. Need blogger. -SH