So, I decided to try my hand at something not so depressing. Now, fair warning, I can't write kissing scenes, so it's a bit bad, or horrid. But, over all I'm kind of fond of this one. Bad argument is bad.
You Can Run Away As Long As You Come Back
John shivered, the cold seeping through his jacket. He didn't stop walking, though, he had to find Sherlock. He had to apologize, to tell him he didn't mean it. He was angry and he said things he didn't mean when he was angry.
Earlier that night they had argued, over something stupid, really. Sherlock had brought home another head for an experiment and John had had enough.
John opened the fridge to put away the leftover takeout and came face to face with a pair of unblinking eyes. "Sherlock!"
"Yes, John?" Sherlock looked up from his book.
"There is another head in the fridge." John replied, placing the food on the top shelf and closing the fridge. He turned around and crossed his arms, glaring at Sherlock.
"Yes. Problem?"
John sighed in exasperation. "Yes, problem, Sherlock. You said you weren't going to put the body parts in the fridge anymore."
"But if I put them anywhere else they'd spoil." Sherlock reasoned, going back to his book.
John shook his head and strode over to Sherlock, plucking the book none to gently from his hands. "No. No more, Sherlock. I don't mind the eyes in the microwave, or the weird fungus you have on the bookshelf, but no more body parts in the fridge!"
Sherlock's eyes remained locked on his book, even though he couldn't see the words anymore. "Give it back, John."
"No! Take the body parts out of the fridge!" John shouted.
"Where do you expect me to put them, then?" Sherlock's icy gaze rose to meet John's. "Give me my book back."
"Take them back to St. Bart's or something! Just not in the fridge! Food goes in the fridge, Sherlock, not people!"
"Give it back, now, John." Sherlock hissed.
John shook his head and pointed to the fridge. "Body parts out."
"No." Sherlock stood and made a grab for his book but John held it out of his reach behind him. "Give. It. Back."
"Take the body parts out of the fridge." John shoved Sherlock back down onto the couch.
Sherlock fell with a soft 'thump'. He glared up at John. "No. Give me my book back."
"Stop being a child, Sherlock." John shook his head. "I'll give it back if you promise to take the body parts back to St. Bart's tomorrow."
"No. I will not play this game with you. You call me a child? Just give me my book back, right now." Sherlock said, emotionless and calm.
"No. Promise." John huffed. Maybe he was being a bit childish, but there were body parts in the fridge for God's sake!
"Fine." Sherlock nodded, standing once more. "Get out."
"Excuse me?" John blinked. "You'd rather kick me out than move some body parts from the fridge?"
"No." Sherlock shook his head and grabbed for the book again, missing completely. "I want my goddamned book, John!"
"And I want the bloody head out of the bloody fridge!"
"No! It's for an experiment!"
"Then do your experimenting at St. Bart's!"
"No! I shouldn't have to! It's my flat, too!"
"Yeah, I know! But the body parts in the fridge are a bit too far!" John glared at Sherlock and moved the book when he grabbed for it again. "I'll give it back when the head is gone."
"No! Just give me my fucking book back, asshole!" Sherlock screamed.
John had no time to think before Sherlock's fist made contact with his cheek. He blinked, stunned. "What the hell, Sherlock?"
"Give it back. Now!" Sherlock glared, unshed tears in his eyes. "Just give it back, John."
"No. No, I will not. You just hit me, Sherlock. Why the hell did you hit me?" John rubbed his cheek.
"Because you won't give back my book!"
"That's it? That's why you hit me? You're such a child, Sherlock. No wonder no one puts up with you for long." John muttered, throwing the book onto the couch. "There's your fucking book." He turned around and went to set in his chair, not looking at Sherlock.
"Fuck you." John looked up as the sound of the flat door slamming shook the walls. Sherlock had left.
He hadn't even taken a coat or anything. He was just out here alone in his pajamas, the dumbass. John sighed and turned down another alley. Admittedly, he had acted like an ass, and maybe he could deal with the body parts in the fridge if they didn't stare at him. And, no, he didn't mean those things he said. He liked Sherlock, hell, he loved the genius. And now he's gone and ran his mouth without thinking and, no, he didn't understand why Sherlock got so upset about a book, but he shouldn't have pushed it so far. 'Way to go, John. Really fucked things up now, haven't you?'
Now his toes were going numb and he still hadn't found Sherlock. He'd lost track of the time he'd been out looking for Sherlock, an hour, two? John shook his head. He was going to go back to the flat and phone Lestrade. Lestrade would be able to find Sherlock. Lestrade could fix this, because Lestrade knew Sherlock better. And, no, John was not jealous in the slightest of that. Nor was he actually worried about Sherlock, it was just his duty as a doctor to prevent illness as best he could and if Sherlock was outside in the cold, he'd most likely get sick. And yes, denial is just a river in Egypt.
John blew out a puff of air and turned around, pulling his coat tighter and walking back to the flat. He opened the door and hastily scrambled up the stairs. No, he was not that worried about Sherlock that he was going to risk falling down the stairs, he was just cold and the flat was warm. That's it. John nodded to himself and opened the door that lead to their flat.
The door swung open and he was assaulted with a cold blast of air and the faint scent of cigarette smoke. He blinked, looking around the flat, and damn it, there on the couch, smoking with the window open was Sherlock.
"Sherlock?" John asked, stepping into the flat and tugging off his coat. "You're back?"
"So are you. Where'd you go?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his voice was scratchy and his face was blotchy and red, like he'd been crying. But that couldn't be it, Sherlock didn't cry, ever. It just wasn't something he did.
"I was," John paused, was he really going to admit he was looking for Sherlock? That he was worried? Sherlock would call him foolish for worrying and tell him that he could take care of himself. "Out. I went out for a bit."
"Oh." Sherlock nodded, his face falling. He leaned over and stubbed his cigarette out in a bowl that already contained three other butts on the coffee table.
"I was out looking for you, Sherlock." John sighed and walked over to the window, closing it. "Why'd you open the window? It's freezing."
Sherlock had turned towards John when he'd admitted to looking for him. "You were worried? I had it open because you don't like the smoke."
"Yes, Sherlock, I was worried. Call me stupid if you want, but I was worried about you." John huffed, moving towards his chair.
Sherlock reached out and grabbed his sleeve. "You're not stupid, John. Thank you. For worrying. It's sweet." Sherlock tugged on John's sleeve a little harder, telling him to sit down.
John cast one more glance at his chair before sitting down on the couch, facing Sherlock. "I'm sorry." He blurted before clarifying. "For the things I said. I didn't mean them. I was being a prick, I'm sorry."
"I, I'm sorry I freaked out. I know you didn't mean to upset me, and I shouldn't have brought the head home, I know I said I wouldn't." Sherlock mumbled. "I'm sorry I ran off, too."
"It's alright, Sherlock. Why, though?" John questioned, looking at his jumper sleeve, Sherlock still hadn't let go.
"You took my book." Sherlock said, not looking at John.
"So you ran off?" John raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock-"
"That's what the bullies used to do. They'd take my books and hold them away from me. I wasn't a big kid, John, I was scrawny and I was no good at fighting. They'd take my books and shove me down, calling me nasty things. I just- When you did that, I thought that you were just like them." Sherlock explained, sniffing. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have freaked out."
John sat, frozen. Sherlock hadn't told him anything about his childhood, with the exception of a few embarrassing stories about Mycroft. He should have known, though. Sherlock was the type to be bullied, smart, scrawny, an easy target. He sighed and bit his lip and sat up on his knees.
Sherlock looked up, startled as John's arms wrapped around him. "John?"
"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. You should have told me. I didn't mean to, I swear. I'd never do something like that to you." John tightened his grip when Sherlock's arms came up to return the embrace.
"I know. I know, John. I just-" Sherlock cut off and buried his face in John's shoulder.
"I mean it, Sherlock. I'm not like them. I won't hurt you on purpose, but you have to tell me things, okay? If I had known, I wouldn't have done it. I'm sorry." John slowly ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair.
"I know that, John. I didn't want you to think I was weak or helpless, and if I had told you then you'd have thought I was, because I was helpless, John. I was weak, and I don't want you to think of me like that." Sherlock gripped John's jumper tighter, clinging to him.
John pulled back far enough to look Sherlock in the face. "I would never think that about you. Never. You are not weak. You are the bravest, smartest, strongest man I've ever met. I love you."
Sherlock froze, looking up at John. "I-"
"Shit." John muttered. "Sorry, I didn't mean to say anything. I'm sorry." John started to pull away but Sherlock stopped him.
"Did you mean it?" He asked, searching John's face for any sign of lies. "Do you really love me?"
John nodded slowly, hesitantly. Any moment Sherlock was going to yell at him for being stupid or run off and it would be his fault again and- John's thoughts were cut off when Sherlock pressed their lips together softly.
Sherlock pulled away after a second and looked at John. "I, I'm not good with these things, John. You know that. But I, I think I might, no, I know, I, fuck. I love you, too, John." Sherlock looked down shyly.
John smiled and lifted Sherlock's chin. He brushed his fingers along his cheek before crashing his lips down onto Sherlock's. Sherlock kissed back with just as much force and passion. John bit Sherlock's lower lip causing him to open his mouth. John took advantage of the opening to slip his tongue against Sherlock's. Sherlock attempted to fight back but he soon gave in to John, as he had far more experience in this field.
When they broke for air Sherlock laid his head back on John's shoulder. "I'm sorry for running off. It's childish, but I just, It's just something I do when I'm upset. I'm sorry."
"And I'm sorry for being an ass. And you can run away whenever you want, as long as you always come back." John chuckled, placing a chaste kiss on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock would probably catch a cold soon, which was to be expected. He'd be grumpy, bored, and intolerable, but John would take care of him. But for now he was going to lay back with Sherlock curled up next to him and fall asleep on the couch. He'd worry about problems the uncomfortable sleeping position would give him in the morning. "Goodnight, Sherlock."
"Night, John." Sherlock hummed into John's chest.
So, maybe Sherlock could be a child and maybe John could be an ass, but they fit each other perfectly. John would never leave Sherlock, and Sherlock would never leave John. They fell asleep that night with that thought in their heads, neither knowing just how wrong they were or the tragedy that would soon tear them apart.
So, remember how I said I was trying for not depressing at all? I might have failed. I just don't do completely happy endings... But nevertheless, I shall continue to try! :) Please review! Constructive criticism is useful and loved!