Nights of Reading
A/n: so this is basically me writing on impulse again. This has a lot of fluff, and is something I worked on ages ago but didn't publish. Reading it tonight made me realise that it was worth a publish. It is fully complete, but I am breaking it into chapters so it's not exceedingly long. For those following Stay With Me (the story I am working on long term), the next instalment is coming soon!
So yeah, hope you like it x
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock in any way. It belongs to the amazing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and in this case Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I do not own the picture I used for inspiration either, I simply enjoy writing in this field.
Sherlock was bored.
That was the problem.
When Sherlock was bored, that meant he stropped and paced and grumbled and broke a mug and did very little else for the entire night. And I would have to sit there and watch him, knowing there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop him. That's how it ended. that's how it always ended.
Of course, living with this crazy overgrown five year old as long as I had meant that I was extremely accustomed to this behaviour, and, strangely, I came to expect it when there was a particular lull in the constant flow of cases and problems he usually had.
This particular boredom fit had been brewing for a while. He hadn't had a case for four days and that was driving him mad. His mood had got progressively worse as the days wore on until I was completely worn out by it.
So what did I do on nights like this?
Simple.
I read.
Small books, big books, favourite books, new books. Books were wonderful things when you wanted to escape. I lay stretched out full on the green leather sofa, my head resting on the arm, propped up with the Union Jack pillow, and I read.
Today I was reading one of my favourites. The sofa was warm and soft and the fire was on, cracklings gently. Through the windows, I could see the rain hammering the glass, the dark night looming in. Overall, I was incredibly comfy, and usually ignoring Sherlock on nights like this was easy.
I had five minutes. Five minutes of uninterrupted reading while Sherlock broke the cupboard, until he noticed me stretched out on the sofa, and reading.
"John!" He sounded outraged at my disinterest with the remains of wood left on the table.
I glanced up at him, annoyed. One page was all I had read.
One page.
"What?" I sighed.
"What are you doing?" His sharp eyes scanned me, settling on the book. In his stilled hand, he held the cupboard handle, which looked rather lonely without anything to stick to.
I raised the book a little, nodding at it.
"Reading... I thought you were good at observations?"
He shrugged, ignoring my jab, "I'm bored John,"
"How strange, I hadn't thought that at all," I remarked sarcastically, giving him a sidelong frown.
He bit his lip, and ran a hand through his already messy hair, making the curls stick up ludicrously in all different directions.
"What are you reading?"
I slammed my book, with rather too much force, down onto the arm of the chair and sighed loudly, "it's a book Sherlock, why do you care?"
"I'm bored," he whined. He threw the cupboard handle across the room, where it hit the bookcase. I followed it's progress to the floor with my eyes with a barely restrained sigh.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Jesus. Christ, "go text Lestrade or something, I'm trying to read here,"
He groaned, "I've already texted him 15 times today John! He has no cases! The website is dead, the phones are dead, the newspapers are offending me with their lack of murders, I can't deal with it- I. Am. Bored!" He yelled. He was pacing again. Undettered pacing.
"Okay, okay I get it, shut up," I shouted, just as loudly. He frowned at me, eyes wide. Suddenly I knew what he was doing. He was trying to turn the puppy eyes on me. Oh no. What he wanted me to do I had no idea, but I was having none of it anyway.
I turned away from him deliberately and continued reading slowly, hoping he would catch on to my indifference and move on.
There was silence for a blissful 10 seconds.
"I'm bored," he tried again. He sounded agonised.
"I know,"
"I'm bored,"
"I. Know!" I snapped.
The room fell silent. For a moment, I thought it was over.
But then...
"Can I read with you?" He suddenly asked shyly. I stared at him, hardly believing what I'd heard. It took a lot of effort for me to stop myself from gaping. Instead, I blinked carefully, trying to make sense of what he had just said. Had that been bloody real?
"What?" I looked up, incredibly bemused.
He shuffled over meekly, "can I read with you?"
I stared at him, loosing the restraint and letting my mouth hang open. Okay, I definitely hadn't been imagining things now. I stared up and down at my mad flatmate. My best mate. Ruffled and crazy with too-big pyjamas that hung off his too-thin frame carelessly. No order at all. His skin pale. Too pale, like he'd never been in the sun. Though that may be true- I'd never seem him wear anything other than long sleeves. His eyes had darkened by the depths of his insane boredom; no sparkle in those eyes. No excitement, no thinking. Just boredom.
I waited to see if he was joking. But when it was clear that he definitely wasn't, I spoke.
"Do you... Want to?" I attempted to clarify, brows furrowed.
He nodded eagerly, eyes shining.
Okay he was starting to scare me now. This was not normal Sherlock behaviour. In fact, it was far from normal Sherlock behaviour. As far as you could go.
So much so, that I was quite at a loss of what to say to him in response.
"Umm-," I began, before realising I had no idea what to say after it.
But Sherlock, apparently, took that as consent.
He prodded my arm, none too gently, "move over a bit, I'm not that thin,"
I scowled, realising I had no choice in the matter, and shuffled myself across a few inches, until my left arm was pushed up against the back of the sofa. At least the sofa was soft.
He grinned, and slipped on, lying carefully beside me on his side, facing me, so he could fit on the edge. His crazy hair tickled my neck slightly.
He looked like he was teetering on the edge, so I shuffled over a bit more, and arranged the pillow so he could lie his head on it too.
He moved his arm as I moved, looping it behind my neck and taking hold of the book edge, from my left side. I looked at him strangely. This wasn't what you would call typical flat mate, or even best friend, behaviour.
He, however, appeared indifferent. I highly doubted that he knew why this action caused me to feel just a tad awkward. This was Sherlock I suppose, oblivious to personal space.
I didn't bring it up though; there was no reason to.
So we lay there, and Sherlock was reading with me. He himself looked quite comfortable with the closeness of it all, but I was struggling a little. It was weird for me. I could smell his shampoo.
But it worked. Sherlock wasn't bored anymore, and when we finished reading, he was calm and collected and even helped me clean the flat a little.
If only a little.
I didn't say anything about the strangeness of lying on the sofa together. Neither did Sherlock. And that was fine with me.
A/n: This really is an impulse publishing, and so reviews would be amazing! X