Oh gosh. So this is the first fanfiction I've published. Most I don't think are good enough. In fact, I think this one is just awful, but I figured I should start posting at some point :3
I hope you enjoy, it's just a bunch of nonsense attempting to be cute.
I don't own these characters (unfortunately) but I do love them.
o.O.o
Two weeks of sun, beach and a series of chaotic, stress-inducing incidents found Sherlock and myself back at Baker Street. Exactly why I had hoped a relaxing holiday with said sociopath would be possible was beyond me. Of course, finding the flat how we had left it was also a ridiculous thing to assume.
That is probably why I wasn't at all surprised when I opened the door. "Sherlock, what have you done?"
I dropped our suitcases near the door and picked my way through the boxes full of- were they sponges? And modeling clay? I reached the kitchen as a sulking (and rather sun burnt) Sherlock appeared in the flat.
I was at a complete loss as to why all this was here, and what the purpose of it all was, when I spotted the kitchen table, stacked with cartons of long-life milk. Sherlock appeared behind me as I stood gaping at the milk.
"Good, it's all here. At least something has gone right today." I assumed he was alluding to the disaster that was the airport and taxi ride home. He hadn't been happy when the taxi driver had thought to point out how pink he was. "I thought it might arrive while we were away, so I told Mrs. Hudson to let them in."
"Who?-"
"The delivery men, John. Obviously."
"Sherlock...why?" I gave an exasperated sigh before turning to stare at my friend.
Sherlock's face was the picture of innocence as he replied, "An experiment. I knew you would be upset, so I ordered the milk for you."
I stood there for a moment, confused and a little annoyed, until I couldn't hold it in and started laughing. Only Sherlock would think twenty cartons of milk was an apology.
o.O.o
"John, after him!"
I continued running as Sherlock veered off into an alley, planning who-knew-what. The figure ahead of me was clearly still a kid, baggy jeans, hoodie and all. But he was also a suspect in a murder, so I kept after him, turning through random streets, into a park, before he rounded a corner and... gone. Damn.
I spun around, wondering which way he would have gone, when my foot connected with a large disc of heavy metal. Swearing, I looked down to see an open man-hole, surrounded by orange cones.
Oh Damn. I was going to kill Sherlock.
I stomped up the stairs and into the flat, dripping with sewerage water. I stormed in until I was in front of the consulting detective in the kitchen, who at least had the decency to look upset.
"I didn't realise he would go into the sewer," He said sheepishly. I continued to stand and glare at him.
"At least you caught him."
Glare.
"And Lestrade gave you a lift here, so you didn't have to use public transport."
Glare.
"Everyone thinks you were very brave."
He was actually trying to suck up to me, to make me forgive him. This shy, and very unusual, attempt to cool my temper stunned me enough that I momentarily forgot why I was angry. Then I remembered, and had to try not to kill the six foot delinquent child in front of me.
I continued glaring, because, honestly, I was too angry to form a sentence.
"I'll buy some milk?" Sherlock offered, which was too much for me. I snorted and turned away. "Where are you going John? Milk!"
"Shower," I yelled back, not turning around. For a moment I thought he might actually give a proper apology. But of course, this was Sherlock Holmes.
o.O.o
I was finally allowed to discharge myself and go home from the hospital. I was relieved, but also couldn't shake the crushing disappointment and hurt I felt, since Sherlock hadn't visited me once in the five days I had been kept there.
I spent a while with Mrs. Hudson, talking over tea, and of course the conversation soon led to my recent incapacitation and Sherlock.
"I've hardly heard a thing from him the past week; I assumed he was with you dear." Mrs. Hudson peered over her cup, concern pouring from her.
This surprised me. I wasn't angry at him for not visiting, I just didn't have the energy, I was beyond disappointed though. But this worried me, despite how hurt I was. I made my goodbyes and thank-you's before heading upstairs to see whether Sherlock had wasted away in my absence. The flat looked as if it hadn't been lived in for a few days. Not any mess, no strange experiments cluttering the kitchen. I even ventured into the fridge, ready for a head, or a plate of spleens.
Nothing.
I sat down and thought. Where could he be? Is that why he hadn't come to see me, had something happened? I pulled out my phone and sent a message.
Sherlock, where are you?
JW
I sat there for ten minutes with no reply. Sighing, I pulled myself up and headed out to get a cab.
Lestrade hadn't seen him either. "Nope, I've been trying to get him for a case for the past three days, and he hasn't replied. Thought he'd be with you. How are you, by the way?"
"Good," I replied.
It didn't seem as if Lestrade believed me, but I did have stitches in my head, so I could understand why.
It was almost midnight when Sherlock arrived home. I'd contacted Mycroft, who's only response to my asking about his brother's whereabouts had been "You'll see." And he had sounded amused, so I wasn't as worried as I was curious now.
He burst in, looking as though a rabid pack of dogs had chased him up the stairs, hauling several plastic bags, which he proceeded to drop and run towards me.
"John," He cried, grabbing my shoulders and pulling from my chair, "You're okay?"
"Yes, which you would know, if you had come to see me at all in the past five days. Where the hell have you been Sherlock?"
He let go of my shoulders and pointed dramatically at the pile of bags. "Grocery shopping," He glared at the bags, before turning back to me, "but I was unsure where to go. John, it was awful. So many people, boring people."
He launched into an explanation of his adventure, which somehow involved a hostage situation, alien conspiracy theories and a cat. So this was why Sherlock never went shopping.
"You... It took five days for you to but a few groceries? Only you, Sherlock..." I didn't know what else to say.
"It was my fault you got hurt, so I thought I would do some things for you, like clean the flat, and buy food," He spun around, his coat making the movement twice as graceful, picked a bottle of milk out the bags, and placed it in my hands. He looked at me expectantly, reminding me of a puppy bringing its owner a stick.
"Sherlock. Milk is not actually an apology, I have to tell you. But I get what you're trying to say, and its fine, really. Perhaps practice saying sorry, rather than getting lost trying to find milk?" I smiled at my best friend.
He smiled back, before pulling off his coat and loping off to his room, leaving me in the living room holding milk and the rest of the groceries on the floor. Damn that man.
o.O.o
Yaay! I'm sorry. That was ... weird and bad. No more writing while sleep deprived. Thank you for reading! Feel free to tell me what you think, I would really appreciate it.