Author's Note: This idea popped into my head and begged to be written. Begged. It would not be left alone. So here it is. It could be seen as a close friendship (as was originally intended) or pre-slash if you've got your slash goggles at the ready. Goggles or no, I hope you laugh.
Easter has never really appealed to John Watson – it's just another holiday and afterwards whichever surgery he's working at will be overrun with patients complaining of toothaches. He never bothers with a chocolate egg since he believes it's just for children and lonely adults. I'm a lonely adult, he thinks, but shoves the thought firmly away to the back of his mind. In the past eleven months he's moved at least six times, both job and home. He can't settle anywhere.
Good Friday comes and goes with no change to the monotonous routine he lives by; wake up, shower, have breakfast, go to work, lunch, more work, home, dinner, crap telly, bed. The same happens the following day as well, though work is replaced by some walking and extra crap telly.
Easter Sunday dawns and John couldn't care less. He's not in the mood for celebrating anything so stays in bed until after eleven. Still in his pyjamas, he makes his way to his sparsely furnished living room. There he gets a shock.
"Anthea?" he shrieks, voice high with surprise. 'Anthea', Mycroft's PA, is standing in the middle of the room beside a very, very big cardboard box wrapped in bright turquoise wrapping paper. There's a yellow ribbon around it and tied in a bow, like the cartoon Christmas presents you see on magazine covers and food packaging. He forces his voice back to its normal pitch when he asks, "How long have you been there?"
She doesn't look up from her Blackberry. "John," she says by way of greeting. "Only a few hours."
John has regained his composure as best as he can at the present moment. He rubs a hand down his face and he wonders if he's still dreaming. He removes his hand and she and the box are still there. Damn it. "What do you want?" he asks defensively.
"I don't want anything," she replies into her phone.
"OK then." John rephrases, "What does Mycroft want?"
One hand stops pressing keys on her mobile phone to tap the top of the box twice. "Mycroft would like you to accept this gift," says Anthea smoothly.
"I'm not accepting anything from Mycroft Holmes," and he spits the name.
Anthea finally looks up, a worried smile on her face. "This gift will do you good, John."
John doesn't buy it. "I'm doing just fine without – what is it anyway?"
"Can't tell you that, but don't leave it too late until you open it." She turns to leave and adds, "Happy Easter, Dr Watson."
The door slams and he hears a car driving off. Cautiously he inspects the box. The first thing he notices is a handwritten post-it note on the top. He rips it off to read it.
I hope this will serve as a satisfactory apology.
Happy Easter.
MH
John scoffs and scrunches the note up, throwing it with surprisingly good aim into a nearby bin.
There is a tiny hole on one side of the box and he can't work out what it's for. He tries to see into the box using it but he can't make anything out. The box is big and is getting in the way since his living room is so small, so he tries to move it. He puts all of his weight into the push but it only moves a few inches on the carpet before John has to stop for a breath. Sod it, he thinks, and scoots past the box and into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.
The box sits in the living room until well after two o'clock before John's curiosity gets the better of him and goes to inspect the box again. He'd been avoiding opening it just because it was from Mycroft and he wanted to be rebellious; Anthea's comment about opening it soon rings through his mind and he shrugs. "What the hell is it anyway?" he mumbles, loosening the yellow bow on top of the box. It takes quite a lot of reach to do so.
Bow loosened, the ribbon falls gracefully to the floor.
He then begins to rip at the paper with his nails a bit like a cat, really. The colourful paper is removed to reveal a plain brown box. The box turns out to have a lid and he carefully lifts it off and sets it against the box at an angle. The he peers into the box.
It is an Easter egg, one that fills the box nicely. John has never seen so much chocolate at once. The surface of the egg is perfectly round and smooth and could be plastic for it has just the right shine to it. Just in case it is plastic and this is all some sort of joke, John taps the egg. Nothing happens. He taps it again, a little harder, and the egg's clearly chocolate shell begins to crack. John is successfully puzzled, so he keeps tapping until a part gives way and falls. It doesn't fall far, only a little bit, before it slides to one side to reveal…
Curly, dark brown hair.
There's… there's a person. In the egg.
In a voice painfully familiar, the person in the egg says, "Hello, John."
And the person in the egg looks up with deep blue eyes just in time to see the box's lid slammed back on with a shout of "Shit!"
The voice tries again, muffled by the lid, "John?"
"Shit!" John takes a few deep breaths, tries in vain to calm himself. He starts to pace.
"John?"
"What?" John snaps loudly, losing his temper. He stops pacing since it doesn't appear to be working for him and his leg is beginning to hurt.
"Can you let me out?"
"No," he says, sits down on his chair and puts his head in his shaking hands.
There is a pause, before: "The egg is melting."
"I really don't care."
Another pause. "John?"
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"You used my name," Sherlock-in-the-egg points out.
John rolls his eyes at the victorious tone. "Your question?"
"I'm hungry."
He scoffs, "You're in a chocolate egg. Eat your way out."
"Will you help?"
"God, no."
John leaves and wanders into the kitchen for some tea. He frowns when he automatically pulls out two cups. He puts one back.
When he comes back into the living room a few minutes later with a cup of tea the box's lid is still on it.
Sherlock-in-the-egg again: "Will you let me out?"
"You let me think you were dead!" John shouts and he sits down before he can kick the box. "I went to your funeral. I visited your grave more than once…" He trails off and takes a gulp of his tea.
"I… I had to—"
"Don't," John warns. "You're here and once I've stopped being angry with you that will be enough for me."
"But what I d—"
"Shut up, Sherlock," John says in his commanding voice. Sherlock does what he's told for once.
The next ten minutes pass in silence. "Are you still angry?"
"Yes."
Another five minutes of silence, then: "John?"
"What?"
"I need a wee."
"Not my problem."
"No, but I really need a wee…"
"You're a grown man, Sherlock. You can hold it in," John says, irritated.
"…Or you could just let me out," Sherlock suggests.
John rolls his eyes but relents, getting up and lifting the lid off the box. He's sure that Sherlock expects him to break the egg for him, but instead John musters all of his strength into his good shoulder and pushes the box over and onto its side. The egg cracks on impact and there is a tiny squeak of surprise from Sherlock. He regains composure and crawls out before standing. He's in a suit and is just as John remembers him from before only… with more chocolate.
The stare at each other for a few moments. "Um…" Sherlock begins awkwardly.
"Yeah," says John. He clears his throat, points. "Bathroom's that way."
Sherlock looks to where John has pointed but doesn't move. He comes to stand in front of John and John can't stop himself from flinching. Sherlock spreads out his chocolate-covered arms and John ducks just in time to avoid a hug. Sherlock frowns.
He says, "I thought hugs were supposed to be comforting."
"Not chocolate ones," John says. "Get yourself cleaned up first and then I might – might – hug you."
When Sherlock returns he's scrubbed his dirty clothes mostly clean as well as himself. He meets John in his kitchen. John has two cups of tea ready for them.
John turns around to see Sherlock. "That's a bit better."
"Are hugs OK now?" Sherlock asks quietly.
John nods without a word and embraces Sherlock. He smells of soap and chocolate and Sherlock. Sherlock wraps his long arms around John and they stand there for a little while. Both know that the other is taking comfort from it. John's ear is pressed against Sherlock's chest and inside is a beating heart.
It's the most beautiful sound he's heard in eleven months.
Sherlock puts his head on John's shoulder.
"I'm still hungry, John," he says.
They part and John hands Sherlock his tea. "Well, you can have either the giant chocolate egg in my living room or Chinese. There's a nice one around the corner."
"Did you—"
"Yes I did check the door handle," John assures.
Sherlock nods. "Good."
He stands, staring into his tea and looking troubled. "John, I…" he begins. "What I did to you that day…"
"I don't want to talk about it," John interrupts.
"No, but I need to say this," Sherlock says.
John tries, "You're sorry?"
"John, let me finish. Thank you… for believing in me, through all that. I'm – I'm grateful."
John takes a deep breath, then a sip of his tea. "I'm your friend, Sherlock. It's what I do." He taps his bad leg which has been getting gradually better since he found Sherlock in an Easter egg. "You help me too."
That evening, bellies stuffed with Chinese takeaway (and just a tiny amount of chocolate), Sherlock and John squeeze onto John's tiny sofa in front of the fire. Together again, they are content to sit in silence, words unspoken passing between them both. John breaks it.
He says, "One question, Sherlock."
Sherlock doesn't look around but raises in eyebrow. "Mmm?"
"What the hell am I supposed to do with that?" he asks. "I certainly can't eat it." He gestures to the giant egg in his living room.
Sherlock smirks. "Return to sender."
They descend into giggles. One laugh is deep chuckle, the other lighter, but both fit together perfectly.
I'm not a lonely man anymore.
A/N: Happy Easter, everyone! So this is my take on the reunion, albeit a cracky one. I wonder if my Easter egg will have a Sherlock in it. Ah well, we can all dream…