John was almost afraid when he heard Sherlock's screams coming from the flat. He saw nothing out of the ordinary outside, and since the front door was locked he assumed there was no breaking and entering occuring. Either someone had gotten in with incredibly great skill or something else was hurting Sherlock-his Sherlock.
He ran inside calling out for the detective. He had no idea what to expect but since the screaming hadn't stopped, he was getting more worried. As he got to the kitchen, he realized that everything else in the flat had been very.. still. It was like nothing was happening expect the screaming, in a very fixed point.
"Sherlock-" the doctor cried out before being hushed by a rather annoyed sounding-probably bored-flatmate.
He walked to the room where the sounds were coming from, Sherlock's room (well, their room on days their relationship was going particularly well, and since the start of it almost 8 months ago, the two hardly ever slept separately). He paused right outside the door. Who knows what would wait for him inside there? Sherlock could be bleeding profusely, could be dissecting an animal (although after the huge argument they got into last time, he was hoping not), or even be testing his own pain tolerance out of simple boredom. Not that John had even ruled out the possibility of a criminal hurting his partner, but the circumstances pointed elsewhere.
As he opened the door, he noticed it squeaked. After two years of living in that flat, he had never heard it squeak before. Hell, last night it worked perfectly fine when Sherlock went into a boredom inspired rage and slammed the door in his face when John suggested they play Cluedo. It had survived many things, so why was it now squeaking?
He braced himself and opened the door.
John Watson, an old army doctor, who solved crimes with the great Sherlock Holmes could not believe his eyes. Sherlock was wrapped in a leopard print Snuggie-where did he get that?-watching horrible American horror movies-again, how did he get those?
Sherlock turned to look at John, looked back at the screen, and then screamed. Why did he keep doing that? The doctor walked towards his-theirs, occasionally-bed and sat down on its edge. He didn't know if Sherlock wanted him to be there during what turned out to be a moment of fright over badly executed American films.
"Look John! This is ridiculous, clearly the mastermind behind all of this is having a lot of trouble dealing with his disease and making sure people appreciate their lives is useless because-AHH." The detective looked at his John and stopped talking.
John didn't know whether to laugh or cry over this whole situation. Surely this grown man, whose life's work was solving heinous crimes and listed looking at human remains a pasttime, was not afraid of a movie. He didn't even know why he was watching movies anyway. He simply scooted over to his.. boyfriend. It still seemed weird to say that; it was almost demeaning to say it in such a common term. They were in a relationship, yes, but it wasn't so easily defined. John and Sherlock, the doctor and the detective-they were, and always had been, two parts of a whole. Still the society assigned terms such as boyfriend, partner, lover, all seemed so odd and not fitting for the pair. He reached out to Sherlock and whispered, "Are you feeling okay, Sherlock?" He didn't mean physically, he was more worried that perhaps something had happened that he was unaware about and Sherlock had maybe gone into some state of shock where crap cinema was acceptable.
He received no reply.
The movie ended in what can only be described as a horrible, unimaginative, clearly commercialized way that left John wanting to pursue a career as a film writer if only to make sure there was one good horror movie out there. Sherlock still had yet to reply; John sighed like he usually did when Sherlock was up to his dramatics. He leaned over and barely grazed his beautiful cheekbone with a goodnight kiss when Sherlock got up and walked away.
"Wha-? Sherlock! Come back!" John was almost positive he was supposed to have picked up on something, but he had no clue.
He caught to Sherlock in the living room of the flat, and got to him before he pulled out the violin. He didn't mind his playing, but he was sure it would not be pleasant tonight.
He looked into the slightly disappointed eyes of his (more than) friend and silently pleaded him to answer.
Sherlock looked miffed, then in an almost whisper said, "You forgot it was the celebration of our 8th month anniversary. I wouldn't normally care but you have been so busy with work that I missed you. I'd hoped you would remember so we could make plans to spend the entire day together. When you said.." he drifted off. John knew Sherlock had said too much, revealed too much. John asked for nothing more.
He laughed in a way he hoped would not anger Sherlock.
"You.. you watched bloody awful movies to try and.. cope with my being a completely careless prat?" He had no idea how that played out logically, but in the mind of Sherlock Holmes, anything is possible. "What? Why? You could have just reminded me! I've been so busy with work... I'm sorry."
He hugged his love and hoped to in that moment express every ounce of regret he felt. He often dismissed Sherlock as being emotionless, he never really thought about how he felt at John's occasional slip ups. He just assumed he was reassured in their relationship.
John slid his hand down Sherlock's back to his hand. He brought it up to his hand and kissed it gently.
"Let me take you out, so we can have a proper date and you can delete that horrible movie out of your head."
Sherlock laughed.
"Fine, John. Promise me something?" The second part came out very slowly.
John was worried. "Anything, Sherlock."
"Don't ever forget about me again, or else I'll watch romantic comedies to get your attention again."
The two burst out laughing and walked to get ready for their date.