John was sitting on the sofa his lap occupied by Sherlock's long legs, draped rather comfortably across. It was a position they found themselves in often, one that worked exceptionally well for both of them. Sherlock liked to take up as much space as possible, when he wasn't crouching in his armchair, and John found he liked the seatbelt like affect Sherlock's legs provided. It made him feel strangely secured, though he would never confess as much, Sherlock would surly scoff or give him that dear in headlights look. Instead he let his hand rest on Sherlock's leg, his fingers absentmindedly twisting the fabric. John loved Sherlock's legs and the detective was fully aware of this taking every opportunity to pile them over him.
"Dull." Sherlock was flipping through the stations, his finger pressed hard into the button. The light from the telly flashed across their faces giving an eerie submerged feel to the room.
"You're going too fast to even tell what's on." John argued for the sake of it, he hadn't really been paying attention. He liked these moments where Sherlock wasn't exploding the kitchen, or beating on body parts, or dragging him across London. He liked those parts to, mostly, but it was a rarity that he could get the man still and just sit with one another. They had just come off a particularly long case and John could usually count on at least one quiet night in after so long.
"I can tell." John rolled his eyes but smiled nonetheless, soothing the material on Sherlock's leg. Then the silence of the room was broken by a mobile ring. Sherlock shot up, abandoning the controller, legs yanked from under John's fingers to scramble for the phone. John groaned and dropped dramatically to the cushions.
"Why do I have to share you with all of London?" He whined halfhearted.
"Don't be absurd, John, sharing would necessitate you have less of me. Which you certainly don't." John hid his blush as Sherlock finally found the phone where he had been rummaging through his coat.
"It's yours." John sat up at this, his nose crinkling.
"It's 2AM."
"It's Clara."
"Harry." John jumped up and took the outstretched phone answering it quickly before it went to voicemail. "Hello? Clara?" He moved slowly toward the hall leaning onto the door frame. "What? Slow down . . ." Now he was pacing and Sherlock watched him carefully. The detective could hear Clara on the line, her voice high pitched, she was obviously crying but he couldn't make out the words. John's shoulders stiffened and he went very still. When he spoke again his voice was soft, distant. "I'm sorry." John rested his head on the doorframe. "It's alright. I'll take care of it. I'm so sorry, Clara." And he hung up. The doctor stood in the doorway a moment, hands in fists before shaking them loose to run fingers through his hair.
"I have to go." He didn't move.
"Ok, I'll go with you." John's eyes had a very faraway look. Like he was already gone.
"No, I need to handle this alone." Harry had done something rather than something having been done to her. Hence why John was apologizing for her. And John seemed angry and apprehensive more so than was usual for a normal conversation over Harry. His fists suggest as much. He looked like he was gathering himself to go into battle.
"I'll wait outside in the cab then." John finally looked up at him, his eyebrows pinched.
"No you wont. I know you." John walked back into the room and leaned a shoulder companionably on Sherlock's own. "Harry's made a mess. I just need to go straighten her out. It'd be best if I went alone." John smiled, a horrible people pleasing smile that Sherlock nearly blanched to see. John never used that smile on him. "It's a family thing."
Sherlock shrugged off the unintended jib and the false smile and plopped down on the sofa again. John was entitled to a life outside of him. Even though Sherlock couldn't boast the same. John fit seamlessly into all aspects of his life, has been thoroughly introduced to Mycroft and was as far as a Holmes could claim, family. But he let it go, picking up the remote again and stretching out over the worn cushions.
"Oh don't sulk." John's voice was a mixture of sadness and frustration though Sherlock could tell the later wasn't directed at him. "I'll be right back. It'll be terribly boring and filled with sibling bickering." He dropped a hand to briefly squeeze Sherlock's ankle before grabbing his jacket and rushing out the door.