-Authors Note-
Hi, this is my first attempt at sharing some fanfiction I've been writing. Sorry for mispells/ooc/language. BBC Sherlock doesn't belong to me,
This Stories Picture was drawn by me, Want a closer look? Go to my DeviantArt-Link in my profile. Do not use without permission PLEASE.
Enjoy~
Pressure on his thumb was the reason John Watsons face was contorted into frustration, he let out a held breath and cursed. He knew this was a life or death situation and if he didn't get this back on the wall before Sherlock made his way back into the room he would hear about it for days. Not that the man wouldn't be able to deduce why it was off the wall in the first place. He set back on his heels after the tack finally made its home into the wall.
"There, good." He sighed heavily and stepped back to admire it, avoiding the clutter around his feet. He stood straighter and stretched his neck up to Sherlock height and stared at it wildly, pulling down at his cozy light clay colored jumper, he huffed again in satisfaction,
"No difference I can see." He turned to walk away but stopped abruptly, "Oh," he turned to look again just to make sure because he knew better than to think he knew better.
A slight jingle of the downstairs door handle put his mind into a slight flurry of panic. He reached out to scrap the whole ordeal and take the bloody thing off the wall in an effort to just come clean about it to his flat mate and leave it alone-however the higher powers of the world found their way to swat him and his un-dodgy ways of doing things. He stumbled a little on the river of books on the floor, not learning from previous encounters, and it only got worse once the door slammed open.
In fact, slammed so hard the walls shook and the damn thing came off its fragile hold on the wall and dropped briefly into the clammy hands of the Doctors, he made a grunt through clenched teeth and cursed himself for not just letting it fall where it would have looked an accident.
Damn him.
Now as Sherlock flew his way up the stairs and into the room, the situation was compromised.
"Well—" There was a flash of Sherlock's brown curls whizzing by him.
"Oh do shut it John. You know I think it's redundant to say hi every time we meet, good God, did you make raspberry tea again? Watson, do try to restrain from your habit of piddling with my collection on the—" His eyes finally landed on John after widely running across the damaged muck of a flat, he held himself up right as always and his eyebrows turned down in a way John's only seen when the man is stuck on a murderers motive. Sherlock took one look at the glass case in his hands and the expression was lifted and replaced with a blank stare.
John cleared his throat, "Rather rude to just barge in that way, you know." He pushed out through his lips, tucking the case to his side as if it belonged there.
Sherlock stood inert.
"You didn't have to come in shouting and slamming bloody doors. I get the picture. You want to be left alone, alright then." John straightened his already stiff posture and attempted to move to the door.
"You messed up my case."
"What? I'm sorry what?" He tried to play innocent, but Sherlock was looking at the box in his right arm intently, almost longingly, "Oh, right right, well—You slammed the bloody door and it decided to fall off the wall, it was good that I was standing—" His pointing and explaining was interrupted when the tall man closed the space between them, flawlessly and gracefully avoiding the clutter on the floor and snatched the box possessively.
John was taken through a loop, now wondering what the hell he was trying to accomplish here.
"Yes, take it." John backed up a tad feeling a little backed into a conversational corner.
Sherlock turned it over in his hands, seeing the bullets inside had no damage, "You've replaced the glass."
John couldn't get out of this. He had already seen this coming, "Yes it broke whilst you were gone as I was trying to clean your damn mess." He said rather quickly in defense. It wasn't a total lie.
The man reacted rather unexpectedly, Sherlock pushed the case to his chest as if to protect it from the air itself and he whipped around to face the flat again and shifted his eyes to further examine the damage that John was claiming to have done.
John found it best to sway the topic, "What are you wearing? It's hell past a bit nippy outside."
"Yeeess." Sherlock drawled out. John could feel the man's rolled eyes.
That wasn't a good answer. Sherlock had rushed into the flat too fast to have discarded his coat, so he went out without it. He had a black buttoned up shirt, loose and no longer-half tucked into his tinted dark brown pants. His face paler than normal and his heavy intake of breath, that and his wild eyes made John turn into the man's worrying house wife, "Sherlock, you're shivering like a leaf, sit down and I'll fetch Mrs. Hudson for a cuppa and-well you're lucky you won't catch a damn cold that way." He turned to only get halfway down the stairs after calling the land lady when he looked back to see the man still standing there, his shoulders slumped now, "Sherlock are you listening? Go put your coat on."
"I must take leave." The man muttered so softly John carried himself back up the two stairs to hear him better.
"You have to what?"
"John! The case!" Sherlock exploded, turning on his heel and tossing the glass case into the couch making John cringe, and then his cold as ice fingers grabbed John's shoulders and whipped him around clumsily to where they were suddenly in the opposite place. That was all he had time to realize before Sherlock made his way down the stairs again, this time Mrs. Hudson had been closing the door in time to shrink back as Sherlock tossed it open again, almost hitting her in his hurry.
"Sherlock!?" John shouted, now getting past worried to anger; he made it down half the stairs and shot an apologetic look at his land lady. She just looked a little shell shocked as he passed in the same manner.
The cold of the late fall hit him instantly; he huffed out and looked down the street.
Sherlock was gone within seconds.
How the bloody hell did he manage such a thing?
"Another one of your quarrels has my door taking the aftermath," Mrs. Hudson said from behind him, "There's no telling where he's gone to."
"Yeah." He gave another look down the streets for any sign, only to start to head back inside, passing Mrs. Hudson without another word. She let out a worry sigh and shut the cold out, "Do hope he doesn't' come back sick as he ought to be without proper clothes,"
-ooOOoo-
Eyes greeted the clock for the fifth time that evening. John had the telly on properly trying his hardest to occupy his attention away from thoughts of his flat mate being out past nine at night.
Damn him.
John also took time to curse himself and maybe even Sherlock's mother for failing to teach her son how to dress proper in cold weather. He said hi to the clock again on instinct, it was almost ten.
John turned off the telly and took a breath before noting his work in the morning and how he needed sleep regardless. He kicked at the cluttered floor and meant to continue to the stairs but found himself hesitating with his eyes fixated on the front door. Sherlock could come through any minute.
Any second.
Maybe he should warm something up in case he did.
No, no. Serves Sherlock right for not listening to him or replying to his texts. Damn it.
He flipped his phone open:
.
SENT: 7:46pm
Gonna tell me where you went off to? J.
.
SENT: 8:12pm
Mrs. H made warm tea and biscuits. Do hope there's some left for you. Oh, get eggs while you r out. J.
.
SENT: 9:34pm
Answer your phone Sherlock. We really need eggs for the morning breakfast. J.
.
SENT: 9:38pm
And milk. Got rid of the animal parts. Had spoiled the whole kitchen. You said a week at max. It's been three. J.
.
John got ready to send another one.
SEND: 10:03pm
Tired of waiting. Went to bed. Don't be loud when you come in. J.
.
He sent it in an almost anger. Maybe he was more frustrated.
He spotted a white paper pushed against the wall as if pushed aside by the door. Looked like a letter.
John scurried down the rusted stairs and took hold of the small letter on the shoe mat. It read to Mrs. Hudson, unfortunately not from who he thought it might have been. Regardless, better than Mycroft; who wrote almost on a regular monthly schedule. Although he's never read those, Sherlock normally didn't give him a chance.
Or himself a chance at that.
He put the letter on a side table near his sweet landlady's door and hoped she would find it acceptable he didn't wake her to give it up, it looked rather unimportant.
He found himself opening the door on his way back to the stairs, making sure it was unlocked from the outside, he instantly regretted it as the cold air slapped him in the face. Significantly chillier than the previous hours, John squinted and remembered the weather saying possible snow fall around this time.
He shut the door with the help of the wind and it practically slammed.
He shushed it and went up to his room with all thoughts of how tired he suddenly was.
His bed was warm within seconds of him snuggling into the duvet and he sighed before he drifted off.
-ooOOoo-
Authors Note-
Hope Sherlock will be alright outside without his coat.
Be prepared for some unexpected events/ ooohhh