Dear Fandom, I'm sorry you're freaking out. I don't want John to stop loving with Sherlock either. I would remind everyone that Moftiss love this show and I don't think they want to stop making it. I'm hopeful that if we all just love it REALLY HARD they can't possibly stop at Series 3. They will have to keep making Sherlock until Benny and Martin are old men and bees and...yeah. I'm done, sorry. Anyway, I thought I'd write a few word-blurbs in an attempt to cheer everyone up a bit as we wait for Series 3.
Not betaed or Brit-picked, sorry.
I should mention, just in case, that I don't own these characters and have no intention of making money with them, only messing around a bit.
Pipe
"JOHN!" The cry is urgent and sounds like it's coming from their bathroom. The apartment is freezing since the usually dodgy heating isn't working and they can't get maintenance until Monday because of the holiday. They've a space heater for the bedroom but the chill of London in December creeps through the cracks in the molding and seeps up between the floorboards.
Removing blankets, John springs out of bed, knocking his knee rather painfully against the bedside table in the process.
"Jesus! Fuck! Sodding goddamn!" He grumbles, rubbing it and stumbling across the creaking floor toward Sherlock's voice.
"Sherlock?" John calls from the dark kitchen. It must be very early and his body is bone-tired and a bit sore from a late-night chase and adrenalin-fueled sex, after.
It's Sunday and besides paperwork at the Yard later he'd intended to have a lazy day. Lie-in if he can convince Sherlock then maybe a morning shag since they're between cases and Mrs. H is visiting family until New Years. Then perhaps a fry-up and some telly. They can move the space heater to the living room in the afternoon.
Now he's slightly concerned it might not be so simple and he's sincerely hoping they haven't got an intruder or kidnapper. Without thinking much about it John shoulders open the bathroom door. Inside he finds Sherlock, water pouring around his ankles.
"Sherlock, what the hell?" He asks, sloshing though inches of freezing water to peer beneath the sink.
"It's the pipe." Sherlock answers helplessly looking rumpled and confused and adorable. "It's burst?"
John can't quite stifle his giggle at Sherlock's expression though he notes that the water is very cold and shows no sign of stopping. With a sigh he steers Sherlock out of the bathroom and toward the sitting room. Pushing him gently down on the sofa wrapping him in a woolen rug before dashing down the stairs to 221C where the shut-off is.
Once that's done he finds Sherlock huddled on the sofa where John left him shivering mightily. He hasn't moved and John can see his breath. "What are you doing, you silly berk? Go back to the bedroom!" He orders, laughter in his voice. "I'm waiting for you." Sherlock informs him. "You're aware, I'm sure, of your lack of pants." John looks down, realizing for the first time that he's run all over their flat, not to mention downstairs entirely bare-arsed.
He collapses on the sofa beside Sherlock with a groan. "Well, you're brother's people are sure to have fun with that surveillance video." He jokes, then sobers when he remembers that it's entirely likely. Sherlock snickers and pulls him into a kiss. "Happy Christmas, John." He murmurs, and it is.
A/N: Jesus. What was that? It's August and...this is the fluffiest thing since a pillow o.O
I'll be back with the regularly scheduled angst soon...