Honestly, this story could fail miserably or turn out simply amazing. Please realize I wrote the last half of this at 2:00 am, so I apologize if something doesn't make sense. I'll try later, I really will.
Based off of an old idea I gave a friend of mine a while back- she wasn't doing so well on writing it and got stuck, so I decided to take things into my own hands.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
It honestly wouldn't be all that bad if it was just every once and a while.
But four nights- four goddamned nights were spent on that goddamned violin. Plucking, strumming, dragging the bow across the tightened strings just to deliberately make as much noise as possible. It certainly was unbearable. John had tried to confront Sherlock about this the second night, but he was inconsolable when he was in his "zone". The doctor had returned to his bedroom and gritted his teeth as the tall detective poised once more to wreak havoc across the strings of his infernal instrument.
And so that fourth goddamned night he decided enough was enough. He could not sleep, and if he could not sleep he could not wake up at a decent time, resulting in loss of his valuable daylight. John threw the covers aside and slid out of bed to march down the hall.
Sherlock Holmes sat with his feet in his chair, as it was his customary sitting position when in thought, purple nightshirt askew across his chest. The violin rested securely in his slender hands as he cranked out a rather eerie melody- if you went as far to define it as a melody. The terrible screeching and scratching ceased as John approached the detective, who looked up at him nonchalantly.
"John." Sherlock regarded the doctor without as much of a trace of emotion in his voice or expression. If anything this made John all the more irritated. Of course, he had to be aware that he had been keeping John up for over half a week, but it was as if he didn't even care- which, John thought frostily, of course he didn't. Sherlock came before the rest of the world.
"It's nearly three." John said, regarding the clock in the corner of the room with a jerk of the head. "Either put that fucking thing away or go to bed."
Sherlock raised a brow at John's language, lip twitching in either amusement or irritation- either option branching off of that just pissed John off all the more. "Touchy, aren't we?" The brunette tucked his violin under his arm, touching his fingertips together as he leaned forward to look him in the eye. "I'm thinking, John. It's what I do. I warned you before you moved in that I play the violin. Often."
"But you didn't exactly say you'd be playing all night for four days on end." John protested, fists clenched, head throbbing slightly. "I wouldn't mind so much if you'd stop playing this crap and actually attempt to string together some sort of melody. I can't sleep for much more than ten minutes maximum before you go off on that damned violin again. Believe it or not, Sherlock, other people have agendas too, and the world doesn't revolve around you-"
"Of course it doesn't." Sherlock retorted. "It revolves around the sun. That's elementary science, John."
Next thing he knew the violin clattered to the floor, Sherlock grasping at his face with both hands. John's chest rose and fell irregularly, knuckles of his right hand smarting sharply. The damned fool had deserved it, he told himself bitterly. He needs to learn that not everything is about Sherlock. Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock. He didn't care about John's damned sleep or anyone else's.
The detective brought his hand away from his face to observe the pool of blood settling in his cupped hand, stunned. John felt a sudden, gut-wrenching pain in his core as the realization set in on him. He had punched Sherlock. He didn't exactly want to- he was angry, but he'd not intended to actually hit him.
Fearing the situation to get worse, John left Sherlock alone in the living room, gut twisted and writhing like a snake as he returned to his room. Sleep didn't come easily, and when it did it was fitful.
Sherlock didn't make so much as a noise the rest of the night.
John was forced to awake when a particularly strong beam of light from between two shades on his window happened to shine directly into his eyes. He screwed his eyes up and burrowed his face into his pillow with a disgruntled noise.
It took him about two more minutes before he realized he wasn't the only person in the room.
A pair of gray eyes watched him lazily from across the room. But it wasn't just him, either. There was a huge gift basket resting on the floor beside his chair. Not just a gift basket- a gift basket with the whole shebang. Flowers and goodies were literally pouring out of its wicker containment.
"…Sherlock." John stared at the offending object with contempt. "What the hell is that thing?"
"Oh, this?" Sherlock looked at the basket with disinterest. "A gift."
He had a right to be leery. He really did. Not only was Sherlock being unusually friendly, but he didn't even seem to hold a grudge against John for what had happened the night before. In fact, his nose seemed perfectly fine. A beam of sunlight cut sharply across Sherlock's face, accenting the more angular regions of his face.
John pushed the covers back to get up and retrieve the basket, gingerly padding across the cold floor, feet protesting the cold surface of the dusty hardwood floor. He hooked the basket on his arm and returned to the bed to sit. He couldn't help but raise a brow at the contents of the gift basket. It was undeniably…feminine.
A giant bear plush sat precariously on top of what seemed a mountain of brightly-colored candy wrappers. The thought was undeniably touching, he had to admit, but really it was rather embarrassing. He was about to inform Sherlock that really, as a doctor, he shouldn't be eating quite that many sweets and that he might as well take them back when he saw the mug.
It rested at the bottom of the basket, and when he could clearly make out "#1 Doctor" printed across the side of the white porcelain.
Well, damn. His face started to heat up at that, and he hadn't a real clue why. It wasn't even a big thing- maybe it was the compliment itself that made him get all woozy. Sherlock didn't exactly hand those sorts of things out, and most especially not gift baskets. "Hello you wish to hire me as your very own consulting detective? Here, have a complementary gift basket- made especially for you! Now, let us skip and be merry as you fill me in with the details of your case!" While the thought was certainly amusing it just didn't ever happen.
Sherlock watched John expectantly from across the room, leaned so far forward on his knees it almost seemed he might fall out of the chair. John looked up from the gift basket with a bashful smile, setting the mug in his lap. "Thanks, Sherlock. But really, I don't deserve all of this."
Sherlock's expression didn't change as he stood. "I think you deserve more than that."
John didn't really register what was going on until he was trapped against the bed, head spinning and grasping at Sherlock's sleeve. He couldn't really think rationally with those thin lips pressed against his, slim body flush with his own. The doctor gasped aloud as teeth nipped as his neck, his ear, his collarbone. He grasped at the curly locks above him, tugging ever-so-slightly as warm hands snaked up under his loose pajama shirt. He didn't even think to protest as Sherlock continued to touch him. It felt so right- It was glorious, it was wonderful, it was-
Everything came crashing down around him at 6:30.
The alarm continued to go off as John lay there, chest heaving as he stared at the ceiling. Of course. It was all a dream. Sherlock wasn't gay. He wasn't gay. Sherlock was still suffering from a potential broken nose and nothing was alright. His arm flung out blindly to hit snooze, getting up to shuffle to the bathroom across the hallway.
John ruled the dream out as a simple case of a guilty conscience and tried his best to forget it as he headed downstairs to face the consequences of his actions. It was easier said than done.
One does not simply fantasize about his flatmate and "forget" about it.