"GENIUS"
Disclaimer: I was bored. I own nothing.
A/N: Forgive me if I'm a bit rusty. I haven't written fan fiction in years.
"Well, are you happy now?" John asked.
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. He looked down at the checkerboard and frowned. "I don't get it," he said.
John rose from his seat and picked up his empty glass. "There's something you don't hear every day." He made his way toward the kitchen and left Sherlock in the living room.
John could almost feel him fuming. He was sure that by the time he finished washing the glass, Sherlock would be foaming at the mouth. He turned the faucet on and wet the sponge.
"John!"
John grinned. Sherlock sounded angry. He did not respond and finished washing the glass. He placed it on the dish rack and wiped his hands on a towel. He slowly made his way back into the living room. Sherlock had switched seats.
"So, I'm guessing you took my seat because you think it'll bring you some kind of luck?" John asked with a grin.
Sherlock's gaze was fixed on the checkerboard. He was sitting Indian style on the couch with his hands clasped. His fingers rested lightly on his chin.
"There is no such thing as luck, John," he said calmly. "There are tricks, strategies, and sometimes, pure genius, but luck, no, never."
John sat across from Sherlock. "So what are you trying to say? That I'm not a genius?"
Sherlock glared at John for a moment but did not respond.
"One more game, John. Just one more."
"Fine by me, I'm just going to beat you again," John said smugly.
Sherlock ignored him and moved his first piece.
Ten minutes later, John was fighting a grin and leaned back in his armchair.
"I told you I would win," he said. He could see Sherlock clenching his jaw. He glared at John. "Face it Sherlock, you're not good at everything," he said.
"It's just a child's game," he muttered sourly.
"You just can't stand the fact that I'm better at something than you are."
Sherlock shook his head. "Of course you're better at things, John. You're a doctor, you can—"
"Yeah but I'm not a genius like you right? You know what, I know I'm not, and that's fine. I do know that I am better than you at checkers and that is something I will take with me to my grave," John said. He got up from his seat and left Sherlock to stew in his own sourness.
John stood in front of his mirror and observed his face. He felt tired and it was showing. There were dark circles under his eyes and a light shadow of stubble was beginning to grow on his face. He heard a somewhat timid knock on his door and then without warning, Sherlock burst in.
"What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?" John asked. He was irritated and he knew he sounded irritated. He immediately felt guilty and sighed. "I mean, I'm sorry. What is it?" he asked again.
Sherlock did not appear to be ruffled by John's brashness and instead he pulled out a piece of paper from the pocket of his robe.
"John, you know me, you know how much I absolutely detest…many things, but, I made a list."
"A list? Of what? A grocery list? Couldn't it wait till the morning?"
"No, John. A list of things that…you're good at."
This took John by surprise. "What?" he asked.
Sherlock cleared his throat and began to read. "John, you are not a genius."
John rolled his eyes but continued to listen to Sherlock as he read.
"You are not a genius but you are very good at many things. For one, you make excellent tea. It's always sweet, but not too sweet. It's perfect. You always remind me that I have to do things like laundry, and it's better coming from you than from me realizing that I have absolutely no clean clothes to wear. You're good at being a friend, at being my best friend. You're good at writing those silly little blogs of yours. And finally…you're really bloody good at checkers."
John was speechless. "Wow, thanks," he said.
"You're welcome," Sherlock said awkwardly. He turned around to leave the room.
"Sherlock, there's something you forgot," John said.
"Oh?" he asked, turning around.
John walked up to Sherlock and looked up into his eyes. Sherlock had a surprised expression on his face, but showed no resistance to the kiss. When they broke apart, John grinned.
"Don't forget to add it to the list," he said before he closed the door.
Sherlock stood on the other side of the door for several moments. He was still processing what had just happened. He ran his fingertips across his lips and felt a small smile worming its way onto his face. He walked to his room and quickly shut the door. He pulled out a pen from his pocket and sat at his desk. He scribbled some things on the list before he went to bed:
John, you are also very good at kissing. More like perfect. Maybe even genius.