A little drabble about John and Sherly's friendship. Please enjoy
Do you think I would be writing this if I owned it?
A light summer rain misted down on Baker Street, slicking the pavement and collecting on the aged windows, running down the glass and forming unintelligible patterns. A small amount of traffic commuted its way down the street, making little noise. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective stood at the window of his flat that overlooked the neighborhood, playing his beloved violin thoughtfully. John Watson sat in an armchair, sipping a cup of tea and reading the paper. Their latest escapade had wormed its way into the daily news and John skimmed over the article, contemptuously curious to see what the press had to publish about them now. Pretentious vultures, he thought to himself, turning the page and not bothering to go on after a scathing remark was made about his best friend.
His eyes felt pulled to Sherlock and he glanced over; the tall man still stood facing out the window, ruminating on his music, letting it flow through his mind without an actual train of thought. John knew his flatmate loved the violin because of this reason. Sherlock had been playing so long he didn't have to put much conscious effort or strenuous thought into the performance, it was like a reflex for him, playing. John was not musical, but he believed he understood the practice and the means.
Watching Sherlock play the violin reminded him a bit of his and Sherlock's relationship: it was natural and easy. Things just seemed to click between them and it was almost effortless... In a sense at least. More often than not the army doctor felt the strong urge to punch his friend in the nose and do something near unforgivable, like throw all of Sherlock's chemistry equipment out that blasted window or burn his precious severed body parts. John knew he would never do it though, even if Sherlock was, well, Sherlock, John he wouldn't follow through. He knew he would move on in a few moments, a side effect of living with the eccentric genius, and would be past it. He was also more than sure that Sherlock had some similar notions about him as well. John did know they understood each other almost to the point of mind reading, and shared an unbreakable bond. Through Hell and high water John was with Sherlock, by his side, and neither planned on going anywhere any time soon.
The doctor wouldn't let anything come between Sherlock and him. They were inseparable and practically joined at the hip (except for the random, frequent times when Sherlock went gallivanting off on his own like a rebellious yearling.) No matter how insufferable, lazy, annoying, or stubborn his flatmate was being, John's patience allowed it. A trait he had learned to adopt very quickly living in 221B. The two of them were what was the phrase…? 'Gentlemen of fortune,' to have found each other and shared the life that they did together. John wouldn't trade a thing in this world or the next for Sherlock Holmes and his friendship.
The battle-scarred man sat there ruminating on this, not noticing that Sherlock had stopped playing for once and turned to see the vacant look on John's face.
"John?" he interrupted in his smooth baritone, breaking John from his mental repertoire.
"Huh? Oh, yes?" he replied, setting his tea aside on the end table.
"What are you thinking about, have you become aggravated with my playing? I've only been at it for two hours." The comment made John smile automatically. It was a light smile, holding his own personal joke with himself because of the thoughts that had just glided through his preoccupied mind.
"No, it's fine Sherlock. I was just… spacing out." He didn't even attempt to lie, since Sherlock could see right through it, but more of told him a mostly-truth. Sherlock studied his doctor with mild curiosity before mentally shrugging. If John wanted him to know, he would tell him. He didn't have a particular look of concern on his face, so it couldn't have been too dire. The doctor looked… contented and in a state of mental peace. Sherlock was loathe to disturb him, but he had been standing there watching John for a good minute or two and the blond hadn't responded.
"Very well then," he relented, setting his precious violin in its armchair and went to the kitchen to occupy his mind with the alcoholic's liver he was observing as it dissolved in a diluted solution of sulphiric acid.
John momentarily went back to reading the news before he was interrupted, "John, hand me my phone." He heard Sherlock call from the other room. The doctor sighed and set his paper down.
"Where is it?" he deadpanned, more than used to it by now.
"The coffee table, I believe." Sherlock replied as he scribbled down notes in his journal. Rolling his eyes, John got up from his arm chair.
Just another normal day at the residence of 221B Baker Street.