I wrote this one in desperation! I am supposed to be writing another short story about The Great Gatsby for an English project. But I dislike that book muchly (because of reasons). It's a response to a kinkmeme that I kinda half remember :)
None of the characters are mine. Please enjoy, r & r!
John's brain seemed to be pounding a sluggish tattoo against the inside of his skull as his hand fumbled its way towards his bedside table. He grasped his watch and groaned. 3.26 am. Collapsing back into the bed, he screwed up his face in frustration. His sleep-addled mind took a moment or two to piece together why he was awake. Vicious, bitter music was writhing through the air from the golden crack under his door.
What the HELL is that man doing to that violin? Sherlock wasn't playing badly, to be exact (he only ever did that to piss off Mycroft). But the notes sounded tortured and frustrated, as if they didn't quite belong. They were the right notes, after a fashion, but they seemed off in some way. Probably as accurate a picture of the inside of the detective's mind as could be found anywhere. Contorted, uncanny, brilliant, infinitely complex. And mad.
Yes, he's definitely mad. God, what did I do to deserve him as a flatmate?
John tried to worm his head under his pillow to escape the noise, and it almost worked for a while. But then the frustration radiating from Sherlock seeped even into that fluffy white sanctuary. He tried counting his breaths to soothe himself back into sleep, but the music plucked at his nerves, setting his teeth on edge.
Right, I'll give him ten minutes to stop.
One minute.
Five minutes.
It was a particularly plaintive chord that slid softly and sharply through the air, like a cruel knife, that finally broke him. Groggily, he wrapped his doona around himself and stomped to the door.
He opened it onto chaos.
The living room looked like it had been smashed up by some kind of wild animal. (Which, John figured, it probably had). Paper cascaded across the floor like an odd array of stepping stones, sprinkled with John didn't want to know what. The sofa had been unceremoniously tipped upside down and pushed against the wall to make way for what looked like a giant fish tank. Inside was an unidentifiable thick, green sludge, which looked as if it could give rise to some entirely new primitive species. It certainly smelt primitive enough. The lampshade was upside down. Books dotted the room, open, spines bent, like crippled white birds. Sherlock, the master of the madness, stalked up and down next to the windowsill like a caged lion, blue robe flapping against his slim, white chest as he wrenched the unfathomable wails from the instrument in his hands. He didn't even seem to notice John, who stood, aghast, in the doorway.
"Sherlock, what the HELL have you done to the flat?"
The other man didn't reply immediately. With a final, discordant stroke, he spun around, blue robe a blur. He strode to the sofa, tearing the violin from his shoulder as he went, before tossing it brusquely on one side of the chair. The strings twanged dismally in protest. He sat roughly on the arm of the sofa, perched edgily like a startled rabbit, bow tapping irritably against his knees.
"Bored," he muttered.
John paused. "And so you take it out on the apartment, and the violin," he said, fighting the urge to scream at him. He measured each word carefully, forcing himself to remain patient.
"Well what else am I going to take it out on?"
"The skull? Save Mrs Hudson the trouble," John attempted a weak smile.
Sherlock gave an annoyed twitch. "Don't be so stupid John, that skull is valuable."
"I see," he sighed.
Exhaustion was gnawing at John's temper as silence etched its way into the room, save for the exasperated tap-tap-tapping of Sherlock's bow. God, I need sleep.
"Anyway, Sherlock, seeing as you've finished with that for now," he indicated the dejected-looking instrument, "perhaps we could both get some sleep?" Hope tinged his voice, but he sighed again at the look on the other man's face.
"Bor-ing."
"Sleep-"
"Is BORING, who needs sleep? I have interesting things to do, or at least I would, except you insist on being unhelpful, and won't find me a case," he said with finality, flinging his bow down to have it land on the violin with a clatter. His long fingers came up to clasp underneath his chin.
John's anger, so expertly supressed beneath an exterior calmed by his medical training and hardened by war, began to bubble dangerously close to the surface of his mind.
"Sherlock, I need sleep! And how do you even know it's boring, you're unconscious for God's sake! And I'm NOT here just to find cases for you! You can find your own!"
"But I NEED a case."
"Ask Mycroft for a case! I'm sure HE has something you can do."
"NO!" Sherlock roared, glaring at John as if he had suggested the most stupid thing in the world, and reaching for the stack of books sitting lopsidedly on the sofa next to the rejected violin. John lurched out of the way as the first book whizzed by his shoulder to land in the fish tank with a dull squelch.
"I'm." WHOOSH. Thump. A second book joined the first.
"So." WHOOSH. Thump.
"BORED!" WHOOSH. Thump.
"Sherlock!" cried John, tripping over his doona in a desperate rush to save the ill-fated volumes. "Those are MY books!" Peering over the edge of the container, he thought that he was lucky the sludge was so thick, really. The last few hadn't sunk too far. Gingerly reaching in to grab them, he coughed violently as the smell rolled over him.
"What the hell do you have in here, anyway?"
"Testing the effects of accidental electrolysis on the growth of anaerobic bacteria."
John blinked, now elbow deep in the mess. Lovely, just bloody lovely.
"Wait…. accidental electrolysis?" His hands caught on another hard, square, book-like object.
"Yes, initially I was just examining the bacteria themselves, but-"
John was staring at the slimy thing in his hands with dismay. His laptop.
"- when I was moving the sofa I had a slight mishap, no matter."
John felt his patience crack in an almost physical sensation.
"No matter? NO MATTER?" Lack of sleep and pure, clear frustration burst inside of John in a hot, hard explosion. "This is my laptop! My property! I cannot BELIEVE you! First, you wake me up at some God-forsaken hour with your screeching away on that BLOODY thing! Then, I find that you have practically DESTROYED our flat. OUR flat, Sherlock! Although it may come as a surprise to you that there are other people in this world with needs too. Then, on top of that, you accuse me of not helping you, when it isn't even my bloody job in the first place to cater to your every whim. And FINALLY, you go around destroying my personal stuff! I CANNOT believe you! For someone who understands SO much, you really can be a right stupid PRICK sometimes."
John was now practically nose-to-nose with Sherlock, finger pressed aggressively against the warmth of his bare chest. To his complete outrage, his speech did not seem to have affected Sherlock in the slightest. He simply stared at him with those cold, calculating eyes, fingertips pressed together as if he were trying to crack some kind of code. The image of calm.
"Well, what have you got to say for yourself?" John was breathing hard, forcing himself, with difficulty, to stop shouting.
"You're angry with me," said Sherlock simply, "because I have infringed on your personal space."
John was so far gone he could not resist rolling his eyes. "Oh, no SHIT!"
Sherlock clicked his tongue softly. "Interesting," muttered the detective, face stony.
John stared at him in utter disbelief and sighed. He had had enough. "I'm going back to sleep," he said, wearily, his anger slowly deflating. "We can clean this up in the morning."
Sherlock didn't move.
He swept his doona around him, rage still quietly bristling in his chest, and stalked towards his bedroom. He had the door halfway open, ready to slam behind him, when he heard Sherlock call in a soft, low voice.
"John?"
John stopped, but didn't turn around.
"I'm sorry."
He whirled around to face Sherlock, staring. He had never heard him apologise to anyone at all. He searched his face carefully, trying vainly to gain some understanding of what went on behind those cold, blue eyes. Sherlock's face was a mask, fingertips still pressed together as his gaze met John's with a curious intensity. No clue. But the contorted violin came to mind. With a tight smile that belied the warm feeling beginning to blossom in his stomach, John gave a curt nod, and then swirled into his room. Back to the soft, white mattress and his own mind, where things at least made a little sense.
I actually really quite enjoyed depicting a 'domestic' between Sherlock and John... I think theyre so cute!
Kinda half-considering writing a bit of a series... but I dont really write unless I feel very inspired/motivated :/
Thoughts?