Gratitude
(Or five times that Sherlock didn't say thank you and one time he did)
1
Sherlock looked into the fridge, a cup of unmilked tea in his left hand as he scout the fridge for the carton of milk. His hand reached over the jar of human teeth and the plate of eyeballs he was experimenting on, grabbed out the milk, and shook it. It was empty.
"JOHN! WE ARE OUT OF MILK AGAIN." He shouted over his shoulder.
The muffled sound of John groaning in frustration and a door slamming can be heard from the next room, Sherlock smiled and gone back to his eyeballs.
2
"John, fetch my nicotine patches, they're in my coat pocket." Sherlock called, he could almost hear John rolling his eyes behind him and shuffling towards his bedroom.
He moved his eyes back to his microscope and flipped through the slides, the evidence that he managed to nick under Anderson's nose, honestly, that idiot is about as observant as a brick wall, probably less observant.
The sound of John moving back to the kitchen can be heard, without removing his eyes from the microscope, Sherlock held out his hand, a pack of nicotine patches was put in his hands with a lot more force than needed. John huffed and moved out of the kitchen, more than used to Sherlock's complete lack of gratitude.
3
"As I told you for the last time, Sherlock, you cannot have that piece of evidence, I have to take it back to the Yard or I'll get fired for not taking back evidence, again." Lestrade rubbed his temples, trying his best not to lose his temper with Sherlock.
"And as I told you for the last time, Detective Inspector, I NEED it to solve this case; I doubt any of your idiotic men would be complete enough to find anything about it." Sherlock pouted.
Lestrade sent a pleading look to John, only to receive a shake of the head, indicating that he can't do much about this. He sighed and handed over the evidence bag to a grinning Sherlock, who, being is usual self, swept away in his dark coat without another word.
4
Molly is infuriated, Sherlock, that incomplete git of a man, came sweeping into the morgue, demanding for a body she doesn't have access to. She don't care how important it is, how pressing the case is, she is NOT stealing a body. Now Sherlock is throwing a fit in the morgue, ripping the cover off each and every one of the bodies in hope of finding the one he was looking for, not caring of the mess he was making and how she is going to have to answer to her boss about why the bodies are all somehow exposed.
"FINE!" she shouted at last, "I'll help you only if you clean this up."
Sherlock grinned, and swept out of the morgue.
5
"Mrs Hudson, biscuits!" Sherlock shouted down the stairs.
"Just this once dear, I'm not your housekeeper."
"And while you're at it, some tea would be nice too."
"Remember, just this once dear, not your housekeeper."
"And cake too."
"Still not your housekeeper."
And the one time he did say thank you…
John, that was the thought that came to him when it happened, he didn't think, he just acted.
Pain, that was all he felt, that was all he could feel, warm blood came gushing out of him like a fountain, he slid down the wall.
"Sherlock, Sherlock, stay awake you git." John's voice sounded far away, it sounded dreamy almost. Is this what death feel like, he wondered. He focused on John's voice, he found on his own voice, "John…John…thank you…th…thank you…for…for e…everything…"
"No, the ambulance is on its way, just…just stay awake for me, ok?" John's voice cut through the mist. Sherlock was trying, he really was, but it was slipping, like his life…
This is what happens when I tried to write humour, it end up being angst instead, *sigh*, I just have to accept the fact that I can't write anything besides angst one-shots.