Little bits that were disinclined to become more than ficlets. Not attached to any episode or arc, and in no particular order, these are simply idle thoughts.
o00o
Where Are You Now?
Sherlock?-JW
Busy John-SH
No you're not-JW
You are interrupting me John-SH
Nope-JW
WHAT DO YOU WANT JOHN-SH
Don't shout at me Sherlock-JW
whatdoyouwantjohn-sh
Berk-JW
John-SH
Sherlock-JW
Must we play this silly game-SH
No game Sherlock-JW
?-SH
I'm just leaving the surgery Shall I go to the shops-JW
No-SH
So there's nothing we need-JW
No John-SH
Did you go to the shops-JW
No John-SH
Do you want takeaway-JW
No I've planned our dinner-SH
How did you do that There's not much in the fridge and you just said you didn't go to the shops-JW
I ordered online and had it delivered this morning-SH
Oh-JW
John-SH
Yes-JW
Where are you now-SH
Cab-JW
Don't be tedious John-SH
Marylebone I'll be home soon-JW
All right-SH
John shook his head and grinned as he slipped his phone back into his coat pocket. It had been a long day and he very much looked forward to cuddling on the sofa with Sherlock.
When the cab slowed a few doors away from 221B, John looked up, suddenly on alert. Kidnappings always occurred at an unguarded moment. Glancing through the windscreen, John relaxed the instant he saw Sherlock standing in front of the cab with a box under one arm and a palm forward hand held out in front of him.
John grinned. After so many years, nothing surprised him. Handing the fare to the cabby, John stepped out onto the pavement.
"John!" Sherlock shouted, his long legs quickly carrying him to John's side. "Come, John," he said, "before the light is gone."
"What? What are you-"
Like an annoyed child, Sherlock huffed, grabbed John's hand and pulled him across Baker Street to where a shaft of waning sunlight triangled along the pavement.
"Give me your bag, John," Sherlock demanded. "And take off your coat."
John obeyed without a second thought, all the while wondering why, while watching Sherlock slip the strap of the bag over his own shoulder and the coat on the other.
Sherlock held out the box in front of him. "For you."
"But.."
"Just open it, John."
John obliged, opening the box to find a cashmere jumper in a very pleasing blue.
"Oh."
"Put it on, John. Please."
He pulled it over his head, stroking the front of the jumper while Sherlock adjusted the shoulders.
"I think that's littering," John noted, glancing down at the box on the ground between them.
"Only temporarily."
"Sherlock?"
"Perfect."
"Sherlock?"
"It's a handsome jumper, John. You wear it exceedingly well."
"Thank you," John whispered, gazing up into Sherlock's loving eyes. "Sherlock?"
"Hm, yes?"
"Why?"
"Why as in-"
John huffed his exasperation. "Why are we over here instead of in the flat? People are watching us."
"The light is muddled and dim in the flat. I wanted to be certain that this jumper was right for you," Sherlock whispered, his gaze a bit too shiny.
"I was certain that in sunlight, it was identical to your eyes."
o00o
The Bloody Finger
"John!" Sherlock shouted as he thumped up the stairs. "You'll need your kit."
John threw down his newspapers, stumbled on the way to the bedroom to retrieve his kit, bashed his shoulder, yes, the bad one, on the door edge upon his return, and skittered to a halt when he found Sherlock standing in the middle of the sitting room, his finger held in the air, and blood running down his arm to his shirt cuff.
"Sherlock, making an obscene gesture won't help," John said with a tilt to his lips.
"Droll, John."
Wrapping a hand round his detective's wrist, Dr. John pulled him to the kitchen sink. There he held the damaged finger under the running water.
"Ow. It stings."
John scowled at his momentarily not-so-brave love. "You've suffered far worse, so stop whinging. Okay, let's have a look."
Pushed onto a kitchen chair, Sherlock stared at the finger. "It's throbbing, John. Profuse bleeding."
"Sherlock, it's just a small gash, a bit deep, but doesn't even need stitches," he diagnosed, applying thumb-pressure while rummaging in his kit for gauze and surgical tape, which he wrapped round and secured. "You're up to date with your tetanus jab, so no worries there."
When Sherlock refused to look at him, John knew Sherlock had done something stupid. "How did it happen?"
Sherlock hesitated, shaking his head slowly. "I was assaulted."
"By whom?"
"Very good,John. You've finally mastered the grammatical-"
"Sherlock. Do not prevaricate."
"Oh, you're using big words, you're angry." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. "Are you angry? Why are you angry?"
"And do not fib either."
Sherlock huffed through his nose, a retort John found adorable. The world's only consulting detective averted his gaze again.
"The truth, Sherlock. Right now."
Sherlock sighed. "I may have inadvertently grabbed the wrong end of Mrs. Hudson's carving knife."
"How?"
"Well, she was waving it about and scolding me for apprehending and eating a runaway fairy cake, so I reached for the knife to avoid her injuring herself, and she hurt me instead." He looked everywhere but at John.
Unable to scold him further, John lifted Sherlock's head with a hand under his chin. "I'm sorry, love."
Sherlock finally turned his eyes to meet his. John's insides turned to mush. "Give it here, love," he said, holding the
assaulted digit to his lips. "There, all better."
Sherlock pulled him down to straddle his lap. "I have a bit of tenderness here," Sherlock said, staring deep into John's dark eyes, and resting an uninjured finger to his incredibly gorgeous Cupid's bow.
John sighed, offering Sherlock his sweetest smile as he closed the distance between their mouths. He paused, another sigh heavy with intention. "A doctor's work is never done."
o00o
The Vigil
John holds vigil at Sherlock's bedside. He hesitates for a moment, then places his hand on his best friend's shoulder.
"Sherlock? It's me. It's John."
When Sherlock remains silent and still, John pulls the uncomfortable chair closer to the bed and eases himself into it. He's been sitting there for more hours than he cares to recall.
Without warning, John's eyes fill and spill over. Knowing he has everything to lose, he curls his fingers round pale hand that lies on top of the sheet. He holds his breath, terrified, hoping for some sort of reaction, but there is none.
"Sherlock," he whispers, gently squeezing. "I'm so sorry."
For another moment there is nothing. John sighs in his unique, world-weary way, and rests his forehead on Sherlock's arm.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there to protect you. Can you ever forgive me?" he whispers against the soft skin.
When Sherlock's long, elegant fingers weakly curl around his thumb, John lifts his head to see Sherlock's slitted eyes considering him.
Forgiveness comes to John with a single tear from the only eyes that see the love cradled in his heart.
o00o
Just a Breath Away
"You're a candle in the window on a cold, dark winter's night."*
No other words nor the melody of an obscure song John had introduced to him remained in his Mind Palace as he stared up at the windows from his position on the street below. No matter. The few words important enough to be remanded to his Mind Palace were sufficient.
A pale glow, like the candle image in the song was the only light from the windows, signalling to him that John was not moving about. Pushing back his disappointment, a slash of selfishness, he knew, Sherlock slipped his key into the lock and entered the downstairs foyer.
The small lamp on the table offered him just enough illumination to drop his coat on the peg and ascend the stairs, avoiding all that would complain beneath his feet.
The doors to the flat were closed but not locked. He secured them once inside. John had left the lamp aglow beside the smiley face. Sherlock switched it off, toed out of his shoes, and padded to the bedroom.
Approaching the bed, he gazed down at the man who was his entire life, the keeper of his heart, and indeed, his very heart and soul. His chest ached with the longing to lie down and gather John in his arms, but he satisfied himself with the brush of his fingertip to his doctor's cheek.
Lying on his side, Sherlock's pillow clutched to his chest, and nearly buried beneath the duvet, John, always vulnerable in sleep, seemed more so this night.
Reluctantly turning away from the bed, he retreated to the bath. He showered quickly, toweled dry and scrubbed his dark curls nearly dry before returning to the bedroom to pull on pyjama bottoms and a soft, threadbare T-shirt, one that John never failed to nuzzle. The thought of it made him smile.
Sherlock slipped beneath the duvet, settling on his side, facing his doctor. Oblivious to the slight movement of the mattress, John slept.
You've made me a better man, John Hamish Watson. My love. My life. My heart. My Everything.
The prickling behind his eyes gave way to tears as he gazed at John's sleeping face. He swallowed hard, not allowing an escape to the sobs that crowded heavy in his chest.
That face. That handsome face so serene in sleep. The adorable, upturned nose. Eyelashes so soft and fair. His quiescent mouth, so proficient with sonnet or swear, begs a kiss.
Sherlock shook his head at his own thoughts. Not one to wax poetic or lyrical, he knew in his heart that the man lying next to him deserved more love than he had the capacity to give, and yet, he would never waiver in his love for the most precious man he had ever known. Smiling through his tears, Sherlock pressed a gentle kiss to John's lips.
John's sigh-moan stilled any sound or movement from Sherlock. He grimaced, ready to apologise for disturbing his doctor, but John didn't wake. Curiously, John, inhaled deeply, then seemed to sniff. Once, twice, thrice. Thrice?
Still deep in slumber, John reached for him, as he always did, curling an arm around the detective's waist and nuzzling his nose and mouth into the slope of Sherlock's neck and shoulder. John settled only when slotted into Sherlock's body, and cocooned in the safely of long limbs.
Holding his breath, certain his doctor would not disappoint, Sherlock waited for what John called the small bit, that never failed to appear. A smile tilted his mouth when John canted his hips against him, an almost subliminal message-or subtext as John preferred-that Sherlock understood.
Slipping his hand beneath his doctor's T-shirt, long fingers splayed warm against the small of John's back, Sherlock held him just a breath away.
*"Can't Stop This Feeling"-REO Speedwagon
o00o
Panic
John Watson didn't need to see him to know Sherlock was near. The detective's aura always preceded him. He raised his head as the doors to St. Bart's Minor Injuries Unit swung open. They locked gazes straightaway as Sherlock strode quickly to where John had curled himself into a corner chair.
At once John saw the eyes that were too shiny, felt the tremor that skittered through muscles held too tight, knew the panic that held Sherlock hostage, and radiated off him in waves.
Dropping to his knees, Sherlock framed John's face with his long fingers, searching for bruises, wounds. Pressing their foreheads together, Sherlock narrowed his eyes to take him in, deducing.
"John? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Sherlock."
Sherlock pulled back, his gaze never wavering as he observed.
"Why are you here?"
"A bit of a mishap."
"Tell me," Sherlock demanded.
"Tried to help someone who didn't want help."
"Yes."
"Lost my balance and sprained my ankle."
"Oh..." Sherlock's sigh signalled his relief.
"They insisted I get an x-ray."
"So, not broken?"
"Not broken."
"Are you finished here?"
"Yes, I'm sorry I had to call you. You must have been working on an experiment?"
"No."
"Computer?"
"No."
"In your Mind Palace solving a puzzle?"
"No."
John smiled at him, but failed to earn a smile from Sherlock. "What were you doing that I interrupted?"
"You didn't interrupt anything, John."
"Why won't you tell me what you were doing? Is it a secret?"
"One day you will understand that when you are not by my side, I am adrift. It is no secret."
John frowned. "Oh."
"Yes, oh."
Sherlock leaned forward to whisper against his ear. "I was lonely without you."