AUTHOR'S NOTE
Sorry I haven't posted in a while, after Seddie became cannon then …well not, I couldn't finish the story. It kind of…died sorry. So I jumped to Sherlock, because I loved the show and well I hope my fic, is at least subpar. I will try to finish this one, but I am quite whimsical. Sorry about that, and please bear with me. XD
Something More
John sat quietly in the even more so quiet loft. It felt peculiar for him to be able to sit still for more than ten minutes without being bossed around by his aloof flat mate. They hadn't had a case in days, so John reasoned Sherlock would be off at the lab, doing one of his completely "legal" and "safe" experiments. "Well," he said to himself while rising from his seat. "might as well not waste a fine day." As he grabbed his coat and wallet, he quickly scrawled a note to Sherlock. He'd been a bit weird about knowing where he was, after the whole Moriarty debacle.
Walking down the street towards the park, John's mind floated back to that day. The bomb had turned out to be a fake, another one of Moriarty's little tricks. But despite being kidnapped, almost dying, and having a gun pointed at him (again) the image that stuck with him was the relief on Sherlock's face. Oh, and the hug, that hug. The feeling of Sherlock's lean frame pushed up tightly against-. John shook his head to push those ideas from his mind. That track of thoughts would get him nowhere. As he reached the park gates he took a calming breath, and made his way toward his favorite bench.
As he rummaged through his coat pocket for the stale bread he got from Mrs. Hudson he erected a large metal fence, baring himself mentally from thinking more about Sherlock ,"that way". Bread pieces flew through the air, and quietly slapped against the pond water. Ducks fought for the pieces, as a small slow smile spread across his face. John looked to the ducks with a bit of jealousy. Flap, quack, flap, quack. What an easy lifestyle, he could do that. Never again would be shot at, or harassed, or put in mortal damage.
Never again will he come home to a mutilated head in the fridge, or a wall riddled with bullets. Never again would he be lead around London by a curly haired maniac with a death wish. Well if you complain so much, why don't you leave? The thought snapped John out of his thought ranting state. Why did he deal with Sherlock and his craziness? He could leave anytime he wanted, why wouldn't he? Oh come off it, you know exactly why.
John sighed deeply; he knew exactly why he'd gladly suffer hundreds of years under Sherlock. But this wasn't really something he wanted to shout from the rooftops, let alone admit it to himself. Casting out the last of his bread John stood and turned for home, heavy thoughts muddling his mood. Turning the corner the stopped at the sight of Bombay Grill, the smell of Chicken Masala and Onion Kulcha wafted towards him, causing his mouth to water and stomach to grumble. Suddenly he remembered the sparse breakfast he'd abandoned earlier when Sherlock had begun his dissections.
As he crossed the street he caught sight of a mop of dark curls ducking into the restaurant. Moving closer John was a bit surprised. Was Sherlock eating of his own violation? Without him prodding, and nagging him? Entering the establishment he made his way toward the man, about to join him when he turned around. John quickly turned and sped his way to another table, his back towards the faux Sherlock. He felt his face redden and hid it in his menu.
He felt so stupid and just wanted to hide in a hole forever. He groaned to himself, what was he doing, and not just here, what was he doing with his life? Was he just going to follow Sherlock around like a puppy, until he dropped dead? Yes, but you know you want something more.