Disclaimer:Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Stephen Moffat and the BBC, not me. Unfortunately.
Triumphs and Charms
"John," Sherlock begins one Sunday morning. He is sprawled out on the sofa, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling when John staggers into the flat, struggling under the weight of several carrier bags. "Don't leave me. I know I keep body parts in the fridge and I hardly ever buy the milk and occasionally use your jumpers in experiments, but don't leave me.'
''Hardly ever?" John makes his way into the kitchen, dumping the plastic bags and filling the kettle with water. "Sherlock, the day you buy milk will be the day I drop dead in shock. And what have you done to my jumpers now? I'm warning you, if it's the brown one, I will throttle you with whatever's left of it."
"All the more reason for you to do the shopping instead of me if that would be your response," Sherlock retorts. He ignores the question about the jumper, because he's been observing the reactions of different acidic substances on woollen fibres, and John's oatmeal-coloured jumper had been his first test subject. "Anyway, that wasn't my point."
"Ah yes. I was in the middle of leaving you, wasn't I?" John calls.
"Don't joke about it, John," Sherlock snaps.
"I- look, I'm sorry, love. But why on earth would I be leaving you?"
Sherlock sighs as if this is perfectly obvious, which to him, it is.
"You've been biting your bottom lip again, so you're clearly nervous about something. There's tension in your shoulders when you stand and you're doing that tapping thing with your left foot again when you're about to do something you don't want to." When John then looks down at his shoes to see what the hell Sherlock's talking about, he then continues – "Now you're avoiding eye contact!" Sherlock throws himself back on to the sofa dramatically.
And," he concludes, turning his head and eyeing the two steaming mugs in John's hands. "You've made me tea."
"I always make you tea," John says confusedly. He's not quite sure him and Sherlock are speaking the same language at the moment.
"Combined with my previous observations, the only conclusion is that you're leaving," Sherlock grimaces. "You're displaying all the common behaviours, John! The tea's just because you're feeling guilty about splitting up with me, so you're trying to make up for this in practical ways."
"Ah yes. Tea, the classic sign of guilt." John sets Sherlock's mug on the coffee table in front of him. "Have you been using Google again?"
"That's not the point, John," Sherlock huffs, scowling at his mug as if it's wronged him. "All I'm saying is - don't leave me." He mumbles something else under his breath, pulling his blue dressing gown down to his wrists and crossing his arms defensively.
"What was that?"
He mumbles again, his usually pale cheeks growing pink.
"You're going to have to speak up if you want me to be able to reply, Sherlock," says John, who is now utterly confused and fed up.
"Because- Because I don't know what I'd do without you John. I was perfectly fine on my own before you came along (apart from the drug addiction and learned anorexia, John thinks), Now I know- loveyou, I can't bear to even think of going back to how things were," he says miserably. "Just - don't leave me."
John is momentarily stunned. For all Sherlock's arrogance and amateur dramatics, it turns out he has a crippling case of low self-esteem. It's rather endearingly human that Sherlock can be a brilliant genius whose looks resemble those of a male model, yet still doesn't believe himself deserving of John's love.
John grabs Sherlock's hand and pulls him up from his dejected position on the sofa to stand next to him. He can see the quiet distress in Sherlock's eyes that he's fighting and John wonders how on Earth he's going to convince this extraordinarily intelligent lunatic that for once in his life, he's wrong. John takes a deep breath.
"Sherlock. I am currently in a relationship with the world's only Consulting Detective, who is not only devastatingly gorgeous and utterly brilliant, but quite frankly, a fantastic shag. Remind me why I am leaving you again?"
Sherlock attempts a half smile at John's blunt compliments. He turns his head towards the window and runs a hand through his hair anxiously.
"John, don't you see? You could have anybody you wanted, someone nice and normal, someone who respects your personal space and cleans up and buys the milk, but instead you're stuck with me, who you practically have to baby sit. John, I've been known to ignore you for days on end. I don't want you to leave," he takes a deep breath. "But if you were going to, I'd understand."
Sherlock thought he was the lucky one in their relationship? For crying out loud, John had been pinching himself every morning since they'd met, just to check he wasn't still dreaming. For weeks he'd been convinced that one day he'd wake up alone in his old flat with an aching leg. Sherlock had swept him off his feet (John winced at the cliché, but it was true) and shown him a life that was thrilling and dangerous, and John craved thrills and danger.
Yet here Sherlock is, truly believing that John could not possibly love him because he isn't normal? For the first time in his life, John Watson thinks Sherlock is an idiot.
"Does your brain ever switch off? Sherlock, if it weren't for you I'd still be in that flat, existing on an army pension and bored out of my mind. And has it occurred to you that the reason I do these things, like make you tea and force-feed you so you don't collapse from malnutrition, isn't because I'm trying to sweeten you up before I leave, it's because I love you, you bloody daft git."
Sherlock opens his mouth to argue back, then closes it, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. His brain seems to have trouble processing all this new information.
"Come here, you," John sighs, exasperated. He pulls the tall prat into an embrace, and resting his chin on Sherlock's shoulder, he whispers into his ear. "I love you," John says simply. "No matter how many severed heads you leave in the fridge."
"Is that a challenge?" Sherlock's voice is muffled by John's hair, but there's no mistaking the gratitude in his voice.
"It certainly isn't." He pulls away and grabs Sherlock's wrists, looking right into his eyes. Sherlock's expression is part sheepish, part relieved and very, very smug. He looks so adorable that John can't help but kiss him, and Sherlock's response is to cling onto him tightly. They both lose their balance and tumble onto the sofa, giggling like a pair of schoolgirls. John slides his arm underneath Sherlock's shoulders and pulls him close.
His fingers come into contact with soft wool. John frowns, then pulls his hand out from between the sofa cushions.
"Sherlock," he says steadily, holding up the remnants of - what was- his favourite jumper. "You killed it."
"Ah. Well, it was an-"
"Experiment, yes, I gathered," John sighs, throwing the slightly blackened handful of wool behind the sofa. "And should I be concerned about the welfare of my other jumpers?"
"Personally, I think you should be concerned about any items of your clothing. They could all ... go missing," Sherlock says, lazily running his long fingers through John's hair. He seems content, and John marks the noticeable difference from his anxious behaviour earlier.
"That's it; my jumpers are going into hiding. They are off-bounds, you hear that Sherlock? Off. Bounds," John says forcibly, elbowing the man wrapped around him in the stomach. He pretends to be annoyed about Sherlock destroying his jumpers, but he's secretly relieved that he managed to convince his idiot boyfriend that he wasn't about to do a runner.
"Is that so," Sherlock growls, pulling him even closer.
John wonders as to the exact number of chemically ruined jumpers it would take for him to consider walking out on Sherlock, but he's slightly distracted when his lips are attacked by said mad detective.
Author's Note: So my Sherlock isn't strictly canon, but I've always liked the idea that he's actually pretty self-conscious. Kudos if you got The Smiths reference in the title too! Yes, this is the second time in a row, I apologise. Thank you for reading!