I do not own Sherlock.
Musicalluna wanted fluffy Sherlock and John. Enjoy.
That evening glowed despite the rain. Everything was illuminated, white and blue, under patchy clouds through thick branches that dribble water down onto Sherlock's face in ticklish droplets. A mist is all that was left as the flush in his cheeks dies down with the dwindling crime scene rush. He looks around for John, loyal John, whom he needs to discuss facts with. It's far less boring with John, yes, far more exciting.
John isn't there, however, and Sherlock frowns a deep, concerned frown for two reasons; John isn't there, first, always. And he desperately needs to explain his theory. He has one, of course, it's so obvious who the killer is.
Sherlock takes off in a logical John-direction (he has those) and walks for a few minutes away from the trees, toward the water. As predicted (he truly is brilliant), John is sitting near the edge with his hair matted to his forehead and a glassy look in his eyes. Sherlock wipes at his own wet curls, pushing them out of his sight, and calls out, "John!"
The doctor is startled, jumps up out of his apparent daydream and clears his throat.
"What is this, why are you staring at nothing?" Sherlock asks, eyebrows drawn together as John purses his lips and sniffs uncomfortably. "You're upset," he states matter-of-factly. John rolls his eyes.
"I'm just thinking, Sherlock." He wipes some of the moisture from his face and turns back to the water. Mist swirls above it like a hazy fog, calm water making no sound.
"About the case? I already know who the killer is, it's just a matter of-"
John holds up his hand as if to protest the movement of Sherlock's mouth. "Not the case."
"About what, then?" Sherlock asks, frustrated. Didn't John want to know who the killer was? Wasn't he curious at all how Sherlock had deduced it?
John clears his throat again. "It's just, I saw an old friend earlier. Quite nice, actually, we caught up over tea."
A cool breeze blew over the water, mist spitting into Sherlock's eyes as he waits (impatiently) for John to get to the point. "Yes, go on."
"That's it, really," John says with a shrug. "I'm just...dunno. It was good."
Sherlock lets out a long breath and stares hard at John. He's slumped over, tight lines drawn between his eyes as if he were concerned or upset. He certainly didn't seem good.
"Why, then, are you so upset?"
"How-" John asks, turning to face him. "I don't know. I'm just—I just am."
"That doesn't make any sense," Sherlock concludes with a quick shake of his head.
John sighs. "I don't know why, sometimes people just get SAD, Sherlock. They just—they feel things, for no reason at all than that they feel them, do you understand?"
"No, that makes no sense!" Sherlock says again and whirls around on him, grabbing John's shoulders. He gives them a shake and peers into John's eyes. John doesn't pull away, lets Sherlock examine him closely. Always so closely.
"You haven't been dosed with anything, you've had adequate nutrition to keep your blood-sugar levels stable, you have no significant mental conditions other than—"
Oh, yes. Sherlock looks rather smug now, once again amazed by his own brilliance. "Afghanistan, of course."
John breaks free of his hold and rolls his shoulders back. "Piss off," he says without any real malice in his tone.
Sherlock isn't going to just "piss off", obviously, and just stands there slightly unsure. "You finally said it."
"What?" John's irritation shows itself through the jerky movements of his head, arms folding neatly across his chest.
"Piss off, you finally told me to piss off. Knew it would happen one day, it always does."
"Oh, come now!" John cries, arms thrown up (quite dramatically, if we're being honest). "Are we really going to make this about you?"
Sherlock doesn't often admit to confusion, but he's slightly concerned now. "I haven't, John, I'm just stating an observation."
John and he stare for a moment before the doctor bursts into a sudden fit of laughter. Sherlock shifts uneasily from one foot to the next as John sinks back to the ground, sitting with his head between his knees. He mumbles something through his giggles as the damp ground squelches beneath his heaving body. Sherlock's mouth twists into a crooked smile. He pushes his coat aside with a swift movement and sits beside his friend, their knees touching.
"I said, for a genius, you really are quite the idiot sometimes," John says again, trying to catch his breath.
Sherlock looks offended, though his mouth still holds a smile. John, his John, is the only one who can get away with saying such a thing.
They sit in silence for a few more minutes before Sherlock speaks up. "Is this what normal people do, then? When they're miserable?"
"I guess, yeah." John nods his head, staring out at the water.
Another minute goes by and Sherlock adds, "How dreadfully boring."
John's laugh echoes across the water. "Yes, well, sometimes we normal people need this. I was working up to a good misery, you know."
Sherlock's chest puffs out in a silent laugh. "I thought you had it pretty well handled, actually. I was wondering when I might see a tear slide down your cheek."
John snorts loudly, knocking Sherlock's shoulder with his own. "Bastard," he mumbles affectionately.
Shoulder to shoulder they sit for the next twenty minutes in companionable quiet and Sherlock comes to the conclusion that he wouldn't mind staying that way if John wished it.