This is sort of the first fic I've ever shown anyone, so I apologise if it sucks and I've wasted your time.
John sighed and tossed his book aside, letting it join the seven others that had suffered the same fate that morning. He was just so bored. And yes, he was well aware of how like his flatmate-stroke-boyfriend he sounded thank you very much. Bloody Sherlock, off on another one of his sodding cases, leaving him for the fifth time that year because "you're too short/cute/conspicuous/'precious'". Honestly since they'd gotten together Sherlock was letting John come along less and less.
John shook himself, and realised how long it had been since he'd vacated the sofa for more time than an average toilet break. He had to get out.
Sherlock felt like he'd been in Kansas for a decade at the very least, although the date on his phone helpfully reminded him that it was closer to a week. Where was John when all you wanted was a shag to pass the time? Oh yes, that's right, home. Where Sherlock had left him. This case had led him from the sewers of London to a desolate barn in the middle of nowhere, he'd left Baker Street late on Monday night, with a hurried "I love you" to John and a swirl of his coat as he swept out of the flat in his usual manner.
Truth is, Sherlock hadn't let John come along because he genuinely had no idea if he was going to make it back to London in anything but a body bag.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, scowling he rolled onto his back so he could get at it. It could only be one person, having told John that texting him when he was on a case would result in one of them sleeping on the sofa for a month, and it certainly wasn't going to be him.
He's out. –MH
Sherlock felt his face stretch into something resembling a smile for the first time all week. Partially because he knew that Mycroft must have gotten another root canal, but also because it was time to make John happy. He hoped.
It's show time. –SH
John arrived back at the flat in an even more murderous frame of mind than when he left, he glared at the dull, consulting detective-less room with such fury radiating from every pore that any bystander (or nosy git, hello Mycroft!) would have turned and fled. Chucking his keys in the direction of the coffee table, and was wrestling with the zip of his jacket when he noticed a flash of yellow tucked behind the mirror, contrasting harshly with the stark black and white wallpaper. He stalked over to it, swearing that he was going to snap Mycroft's neck the next time he was 'kidnapped'.
Catching the piece of paper between his fingers, he briefly considered tearing it into a thousand tiny pieces before he noticed Sherlock's elegant flowing script.
Hello John,
If you're reading this, which I suppose you must be, then it appears I'm going to have to miss our anniversary. God knows I don't generally care about such trivial nonsense, but you do, so I do. Honestly John, for me, everyday with you is a special day, but nonetheless, to apologise…well, you'll see. Just don't kill Mycroft until I get back, promise?
Always yours,
Sherlock.
John smiled and tucked the note into his pocket before firing off a text.
I've been told not to kill you. Count yourself lucky. –JW