TRENCHES
Every time Sherlock pulled something like this, they got irrevocably dirty, but he only regretted it once.
The first time he'd played something like this, John's face had gone through a series of rather handsome expressions.
First, he'd registered surprise.
His mouth gaped, before he remembered nearly every part of his muscular, spicy bod was covered in dripping mud, and closed it again in fear of swallowing some of the, so Sherlock claimed, relatively healthy solution and he was frankly astonished that John, as a medical man, did not know.
He blinked several times, though whether this was to get rid of the dirt on his manly eyelashes or to simply get over the fact he was lying in a pool of mud surrounded by the entire cast of Barnyard was debatable.
Then the surprise was replaced by adorable anger.
Really, Sherlock wanted to take the beyond intimidating five foot six point something quite seriously, but it was quite hard when the man's eyebrows were twitching.
Much like tiny caterpillars.
Well, he was certain if they were to be compared to actual caterpillars, the insects would cower in fear, but on John, they looked righteous and quite fluffy, even when covered in a disturbing amount of something that had to be the obvious mix of mud, what was undoubtedly animal droppings and remains of their afternoon lunch.
Then the yelling started.
Sherlock had tried to make clear that, if John would make any more sound than the screaming of sexual tension, they would surely be discovered by the unsurprisingly unmarried adulterous murderer right on the other bloody side of that fence right there, and that the only way he was allowed to use those sweet lips like this was in the bedroom, (a strange request, Sherlock realised, as they had only lived together for three months) but John seemed to be unwilling to see reason.
After one bellowed "bloody fucking shit, Sherlock", their hideout was discovered and they were being chased by a fifty-year-old in Victorian dress and a ruddy hayfork.
This would later, when casually dropped in conversation or when asked about the alarming smell they seemed to be unable to get rid of, even after hours of scrubbing until their skin looked forty years older than it actually was, be referred to as The Dangerous Shooting Incident.
Herein, the shooter was an aggressive hunter in his mid-twenties, and their surroundings were replaced by a basement full of rotting corpses the imaginary dangerous man affectionately referred to as his prizes.
Besides, Sherlock only regretted the mudbath for the three weeks it took for John to be willing to ask him whether he wanted a cup of tea again.
The second time was in the park.
Sherlock hadn't had a case for nearly a month and, after using an apparently rather important photograph of John's for an experiment on the effect of extremely bright light on Polaroid, John had decided it was unsafe for him to be left alone with his things while he went for a run.
Sherlock had been slightly alarmed when he found John had been online-shopping for leashes, so he obediently walked along.
Big mistake.
Sherlock was not keen on accepting faults, but when it came to John and his adorable twitchy caterpillars or spastic cheek muscle when he was amused at the tiny explosions in Sherlock's cuppa while he should be the one exploding into a colourful big gay rainbow of words and make a new pot, he seemed to nearly always be wrong about things. The fine print. The small things anyone else would have found unimportant, but not Sherlock.
Oh no.
Because the little things were his job. His livelihood.
And when Sherlock confided in John his hate for the ever threatening presence of birds and John had blatantly laughed right in his most adorable pouty face, all he could focus on where the delightful way his eyes squinted and glistened, the way wrinkles formed in the corners of his big babyblues and the way his laugh hit Sherlock deep in his hollowed-out, sexy, hairless chest.
So at the time when Sherlock and John were running in the park and a bird decided to dive spectacularly at what Sherlock assumed to be the cutesy strand of hair on John's crown that just had refused to stay flat that morning, Sherlock assumed the only course of action would be to save John from this malicious attempt on his endearing hairdo and push him.
After the unwilling subject of his heroism landed in a puddle next to the walking path and suspiciously close to the pond, John was done muttering curses and he'd pulled Sherlock down and ruined a ridiculously expensive suit that was so completely worth it, Sherlock realised the bird was simply attacking a packet of crisps that had no longer fit in the bin.
When explaining that their tumble into the duck's meeting and mating grounds was in actuality a very sweet and caring attempt to save dear John Watson's life, the poor, dripping and bemired doctor had seemed the least keen on pressing a big one onto Sherlock's frowny lips, and Sherlock had to drag his muddy, slouching feet to the locked door of 221b Baker Street all by himself.
This incident would later be referred to as The Kamikaze pilot, in which they were attacked by a madman on a Delta plane, fully intent on crashing his flying vehicle (when asked to specify, it had rocket launchers,) into their broad, muscular shoulders, but they managed to overpower him, after which they, full of commiseration, released him and he became an honest man, selling steak baguettes in Manchester.
Neither Sherlock nor John regretted this one bit.
The third time, they got irrevocably dirty. There had been no immediate danger.
No dingy swordsman, no mental bomber or marksman.
It had rained again, not uncommon in London, surely, and he hadn't planned on being here, so far away from his and John's home, but jumping out of that train had really been their only escape.
True, their landing had been soft and had sounded more like a splat than a dull thud, nor had any bones been crushed, broken or shattered, and that was all brilliant, but Sherlock genuinely failed to see the funny when John started to gleefully giggle.
Sherlock truly tried to explain he was not amused by an evening of getting kidnapped by time-wasting amateurs and jumping out of a train moving not even twenty miles per hour, but the giggling gradually grew louder and then they were both laughing, Sherlock low and rumbling, John high-pitched, like a euphorical two-man band of madmen.
And then John was moving.
Perhaps Sherlock was moving too, he couldn't tell, and then they were kissing.
They were kissing and smiling, and it was awkward and clumsy.
They were filthy and they wouldn't be clean for days, but they didn't really care about any of that while their lips were still moving.
All Sherlock had thought, when his fingertips raked John's face like a drowning man trying to find the levee, was that John's skin was so soft.
This little episode would later be told to friends and family, to everyone who'd hear, after John got over the initial shock of Sherlock blurting it out in front of an unfortunate dead woman.
It was the story John would tell after they'd slipped the rings on and signed the papers, and it would be the story both Mycroft and Harry would share in front of two identical coffins, both old, both happy and both anything but done talking.
Because it was where it all began, and neither Sherlock nor John had ever been truly clean afterwards.
This is an entry for the contest of #JohnSherlock on deviantart. The prompt was 'Down and Dirty', and I hope I did well, seeing as I, personally, think I strayed from the subject just a tad. OH WELL. It's all about entering, not the winning, am I right? :D
I would like to encourage you ALL to enter and grant the club a watch, yes? The club is right here: johnsherlock(dot)deviantart(dot)com and the deadline is the end of March!
Love,
Mary-Jane