John was still at the clinic and was dying to go home for a nice cuppa and a decent sleep, he looked miserable, with dark circles weighing below his eyes, pale and weak. The last time he went home was two days ago, leaving a note on the mantelpiece for Sherlock and a couple of medicine instructing him to eat, sleep, don't blow the flat, leave the poor wall alone, and don't get sick while I'm away.
He missed him badly but an influx of patient kept him from leaving his work especially with only three available doctors- including him- on duty. Even if he got an hour without any appointment, he spent it dozing off or eating and texting Sherlock because with the flu and cold plaguing the city he couldn't risk getting sick himself.
Finally, after them pouring number of people getting in and out of the clinic settled and sick crowd seemed to calm down, he was granted the privilege to go home.
Do we still have milk? –JW
Hey? –JW
Getting out of his working coat, he glanced at his phone again, lips pressed together in a tight line. The last time he saw Sherlock, he was in the kitchen slicing some toes God knows who belonged to. But it's better than leaving him slumped in the couch cursing London's pathetic crimes and people's tiny brains just to find out after two days that he's still at it.
"John." Sarah popped her head into John's door resting his hands on the door, it's been a long time since the break up and she's already married. Sarah by far, was the best woman John ever dated, even Sherlock thinks so too until he kissed John in front of Sarah on their fifth – which happened to be the last – date. She watched him get dressed, scanning John from his back and breaking the silence they unconsciously created, "Thank you…" her hands were all flailing "…for this."
John turned to his heels to face Sarah, she have bags under her eyes. John was busy but Sarah, the poor woman, was far more tired looking than he is. He shook his head.
"It's okay, I mean, it kept me busy… not letting my mind…" Sarah grabbed John's hands, cutting him in the middle of his speech, rubbing circles around his knuckles and she smiled. John tightened the grip smiling sadly at her. "Right."
"You're tired. Do you maybe want to grab some…?" Before she could finish her sentence John has let go of her hand and waved saying maybe next time, I need to sleep. See you.
John dropped by Tesco for a quick shop. Knowing his flatmate, the milk's probably gone leaving an empty carton in the fridge because it can't throw itself in the bin.
Getting milk. Need anything from Tesco? –JW
After a few minutes, still no reply. He rolled his eyes and went home.
"Hey, I texted you a couple of times." John said as he stepped inside their flat, grocery bags in his hands. He gave his flatmate who was lying in the couch, both hands tucked below his chin in what John called 'thinking' position, a good couple of seconds to respond and knowing he won't get any answer, John went straight to the kitchen only to find test tubes and vials and a lot of Sherlock stuff occupying the table. He let out a huge breath. He was so tired he didn't have any strength to complain and clean so he put the items on the counter top.
"My phone's on my coat." Sherlock replied still not moving from the couch.
"Sherlock." John whispered, with milk in one hand ready to dispose into the fridge when he found another head inside. Again, he sighed. Exhaustion was screaming from his breath as he closed the fridge's door and went straight to the sitting room.
"There's another head in the fridge, what did I tell you about the body parts?" His left hand was scratching the skin of his nape while the right was rested on his hips as he emphasized the body parts. He was used to seeing them around the flat. But this time, Sherlock didn't put it in his side of the fridge where nobody can grab it in terms of starvation.
"Where else am I supposed to put it? You don't mind, do you? I got it from Barts' morgue. I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death." He stated.
John said nothing and let out a sigh. How many times did he sigh today? He lost count. Instead, he went to the kitchen and set up the water to boil. A cuppa.
'God, yes.'He thought as the beautiful sound of boiling water filled his ears.
He set his cup and Sherlock's coffee on the table. Grabbing his laptop and flopping at his own chair, his ears were forced to listen with Sherlock muttering details in the background about the last case they had.
John just sat there, staring at his screen, he wanted to write about their last adventure but he was in no mood to do so. Silence was creeping between them even though the honk and screeches of cars and chattering people flood the streets of London. But it wasn't unusual. Sherlock rarely talks on days end. He hums sometimes, even play his violin but silence between the two was something they share and something John treasured (especially when Sherlock's bored out of his wits). It was relaxing, yet cold, and right now John's not in the mood for emptiness.
Suddenly Sherlock gasped, breaking the stillness. Oh. He was wearing nicotine patches, three nicotine patches to be exact and all John could do was stare.
"You've got questions." Sherlock shot him a look.
"Yeah. Did you murder the wall again?"
"Oh. The wall had it coming."
John chuckled, he didn't know why but he felt good just by talking to his flatmate, his obnoxious, git, and arrogant of a flatmate. He was gone for two days and the madness Sherlock emits isn't something you miss, but he was missing it.
Sherlock sat up, not breaking his gaze from John
"It's been a while since you I heard you laugh, John." He said, soft and rumbling. It sends shivers down John's spine making him feel warm and breathless and longing.
"Yeah?" John's answer was quick, a genuine smile shaping his lips and receiving one small snort from Sherlock.
"Obvious." Now Sherlock was looking away dragging his silk dressing gown towards him, clearing a space in the couch and sipping his coffee.
John took it as an invitation. He set down his laptop and sat next to Sherlock. "It isn't obvious to me." He said grinning.
Their knees bumped and that small contact made Sherlock jump up to his feet and into the windowsill leaving a half empty cup of coffee and a disappointed John Watson. He wanted to stay longer next to Sherlock. He wanted to touch, wanted to kiss, and wanted to feel his warm body against his. He wanted Sherlock, but John knows when to push and when to pull, when to let go and when to hold him close.
"Mrs. Hudson kidnapped my violin again. Wasn't contented with the skull, I see." John's train of thoughts were shattered as he watched the detective manoeuvres through the flat, trying to find a bow and a violin. But when he found nothing, he whirled to face John.
At first, he was startled having Sherlock bending down in front of him with one hand propped and offered, but the second his eyes met Sherlock's - blue eyes with bits of gold splattered around creating green- he could hear the soft unspoken 'Get up, John' and his soul nearly left him, accepting the pale, long and large hand of his lover.
Their fingers entwined like it was meant to be weaved together,sharing warmth as his palm glides like skin on silk, eyes locked on each other and within seconds, Sherlock pulled John closer to plant a chaste kiss, lips on lips and their whole body pressed together with only a small space to breathe. Sherlock's hands rubbed his lover's back pulling him closer, because it's not enough. They need to wear each other like second skin, connected and as one. Soon the contact that even with layers of clothing, rekindled every nerve on their bodies, making them as naked as they are not.
They stayed like that for a while, Sherlock nuzzling John's hair and him breathing to the taller man's neck. Heartbeats joining to form one single rhythm and everything went very still. Gravity couldn't hold them down; they were floating in each other's arms. Their breaths filled the room and London's everyday noise was put to shame. There was silence, and then there wasn't.
Sherlock leaned down to John, and John met him halfway. Coffee, and tea mixed with passion and longing as their mouths meet filling the emptiness of their anatomy, John reached up to wrap the neck of his Sherlock with his hands, and finger's finding soft curls caressing them. Sherlock answered the smaller man's eagerness and leaned in for more, letting their hearts resonate, sending shivers down their spines. His hand held John's waist and they started to sway, rocking them together in a calculated rhythm.
The kiss was broken leaving smiles on their faces and hearts on their throats.
"Are you trying to dance us without informing me, Sherlock?" John's voice was flirting, hot and sharp to Sherlock's ears as he allowed his body to sway with him.
"Not good?" Sherlock shot back, smiling and purring like a cat granted with his favourite ball of yarn.
"Quite so. Very good."
It's been a while for John, to be dancing like this – almost as if their making love without having sex – not to mention, there wasn't any music not that they needed one.
"Give me everything." Sherlock said and John did. He leaned into Sherlock's chest closing his eyes, letting the world and his exhausted body to Sherlock's hand. He felt safe and weak, his body felt heavy and light, he felt everything in a heartbeat as he let Sherlock take control of everything that was hurting and John shuddered.
"John. You'll never be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you are unbeatable." Sherlock said. His rich baritone voice, assuring and proud.
John chuckled. "Yes, yes I am." And they continued to dance.
.
.
.
"John?" Lestrade was standing in the door, his brows furrowed as his step suspended in an attempt of going further inside.
John turned around in his heels so he's facing Lestrade, a mixture of query and mockery masked his face leaving 'What are you talking about?' hanging in space. They stared at each other for seconds,
"Who… Who are you talking to?" the DI asked his face a mixture of concern, sadness and pity.
Startled, John's feet twitched trying to feel the ground, his breath raged from forcing pockets of air to settle in his lungs. When the silence shared was too much to bear, he started pacing. Moving around, finding something, anything to prove the heavy feeling that's starting to surround his heart wrong.
But to no avail. He found nothing. Only a cup of untouched and cold coffee, a couch cluttered with old newspaper, and a fridge with only a carton of fresh milk, clear and clean of a severed head. He felt nothing.
"Ah." A resigned sound left his lips, it dawned to him.
These... these are the shattered memories that were haunting him for years now and it made sense. It made sense, and it hurts… His heart, weary, tired, and battered full of fragments of his memories with Sherlock; the coffee, the kiss, the silence… everything, from their first dance to their last kiss, John managed to sew them up to fill the void in between. It made him forget that now, he only had to make his tea and that every night there will be silence instead of a violin playing. Memories can't fix the hallows between John's fingers, but he prefers it that way than waking up to a cold empty bed with only the faint scent of Sherlock, fading every moment.
It made sense. He closed his eyes, his tears fell and he could hear Sherlock Holme's...
'Boring…'
'Everyone's an imbecile.'
'What do you mean how? Rachel!'
...but the voice in his head, was vanishing slowly…
'Look at you lot, you're all so vacant'
'Is it nice not being me? It must be so boring.'
...John smiled to that…
'Oh god! That again! It's not important!'
...slowly...
'A rabbit John!
...fading…
'John Hamish Watson, I love you dearly. Problem?'
END.
A/N : Thanks for my awesome bruh, Chiharu ( .com), for beta-ing my first JohnLock fic. :3
~Reviews will be appreciated~