Created based loosely on a prompt on Tumblr asking for "John and Sherlock's morning routine."
[I don't own anything, etc.]
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Truthfully, it is simultaneously both and neither of their faults. Because yes, John mixed the green-swishy thingwith the vomit colored plastic despite Sherlock's instructions to stay far, far away from his experiment, but really, it is John's kitchen and he had really needed some tea.
Mrs. Hudson is having none of it. Rather, she won't be. When she returns from vacation feeling suitably relaxed, John is certain that the pair of them will be on the receiving end of lectures, guilt trips, and more.
The difference is that he'll feel bloody awful, and Sherlock will stick his nose up at it all.
It hardly matters now, of course. The pair of them are pooling together supplies to stay at a bed and breakfast down the road.
A single room. Good lord.
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The pair of them check in, and of course within a week there's some new murder going on, so of course Sherlock takes it, and of course they both end up in bucket loads of danger.
And so at some point, yes , they're running down an alleyway at top speed- except John for once notices something Sherlock doesn't, and so he jumps to the right instead of the left just in time, knocking both of them out of harm's way.
Mostly. He's bleeding, but not much, and it's safe to say that he finds it a suitable trade for Sherlock's life, the git.
Sherlock, surprisingly, doesn't see it that way. And so they trudge to the bed and breakfast in silence (the silence only broken by John's hasty and amused reassurances to the young woman behind the counter who looks as if she's about faint), and Sherlock gets a first aid kit and sets to work binding John up and all that. And then, because John feels uncomfortable- Sherlock is just there and his eyes are angry and his posture is angry and his mouth is set angrily and John cannot figure out for the life of him why- he tries to say something and Sherlock snaps back, and soon they're having a bit of a shouting match in the middle of their very tiny room. And because of its very tiny size, John cannot be blamed for accidentally stepping forward instead of backward, just like Sherlock cannot be blamed for pulling him even closer and crushing their mouths together.
("My feelings for you are vast and complicated and worthy of much distress," Sherlock says afterwards, wringing his hands together, and John rolls his eyes and says "I love you, too.")
And then they go on to do interesting things that interesting people do at interesting hours of the night when they've just learned interesting things about each other.
So the next morning John is sore and tired and happy, and so is Sherlock, and it's discovered (via text, of course) that their flat has been repaired and that they can come home. John is relieved that Mrs. Hudson might not have to know anything about the entire fiasco and Sherlock is pleased that he may be able to retrieve samples from the burn site to analyze so that he can better construct the same experiment at a later date.
"As long as it's not in the flat," John warns him sleepily, and he agrees reluctantly with a little coercion on John's part.
Sorry, a lot of coercion. Let it never be said that Sherlock is easily swayed.
"We ought to get home, then." John murmurs it into Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock rumbles in agreement, slowly leaning himself and John up into sitting position. John wanders into the bathroom to do his bathroom things and steps out in order for Sherlock to do the same. At Sherlock's reappearance, he stares at the clothes he's laid out on the bed and considers matters for a while before declaring that he's going to take a shower.
"I was going to take a shower," Sherlock says carefully (not petulantly, of course. Sherlock Holmes is not childish by a long shot.) and John merely raises an eyebrow before walking purposefully through the bathroom door and turning on the water. Sherlock sits on the bed for thirty six seconds, not pouting, until John calls something indistinguishable from the bathroom. "Sorry?"
"I said," John calls out, grinning madly, "It's awfully nice in here."
"There's no need to boast," Sherlock mutters, glancing towards the door and then stopping dead because oh, the door is still slightly ajar. "John?" He starts softly, knocking on it carefully. "You've forgotten to lock the door."
"Have I?" John says cheerfully. "That's a shame. All manner of people could come in now, I suppose."
Sherlock frowns. "No, they couldn't. I'm the only one—"
John sighs in exasperation. "Sherlock, get in the damn shower."
Well. Sherlock doesn't need telling twice.
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"Where were you?" Lestrade asks four hours later when the pair of them finally come forward to pick up their flat keys. "You were going to come round at ten past!"
Sherlock plucks the keys from his fingers and continues, flushing slightly. John follows, turns, and smiles crookedly, arching an eyebrow.
Lestrade considers himself clinically scarred for the next three weeks.