Hello, Internet companions! God, it's been forever since I updated/published something. But this popped into my head without warning, and I wanted to submit it before someone else got this remarkably cute idea. So, here you all go.
I'd like it very much if someone could draw fanart of this? Please?
Anyway, this is going on Tumblr as well. My Tumblr is theraggedypond.
Well, what are you waiting for? Read and review! Follow me on Tumblr too, if you'd like!
You Should Have Let Me Sleep
A small Johnlock writing.
If one were to walk into flat 221B of Baker Street this afternoon, one would no doubt find the usual sight. Upon entrance, they would nearly be tripped by the large assortment of items that seemed to amass without warning in the doorway. Everything from the mundane book of economics to the latest attempted assassination on its tenants could be found there. Alongside the usual black jacket and blue scarf, of course.
A visitor would then find their way to the kitchen, if they could manage such a feat. They would think they had somehow entered the laboratory. When in reality, they were looking into the kitchen of the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes and his flatmate, Dr. John Watson. Test tubes and various crime scene photos lay scattered across the table. There was even a head in the fridge, if you cared to look. Some eyeballs in the microwave for one to snack on if one got hungry.
After such snacks, one would see themselves into the living room. Where, ordinarily, not a single person sat still. Whether it was a new case or a rather heated argument, you could always find some activity bustling around in the two men's living quarters. Today however, this was not the case.
It was a most unusual day in 221B.
For Sherlock Holmes, the master detective, lay fast asleep on the couch.
Stretched out upon the furniture, Sherlock was splayed in suspended animation. His limbs languidly mirrored the unsystematic directions they usually flailed in when awake. His face was pressed against the upholstery. One gangly arm sprawled across the armrest, while the other dangled, fingers barely brushing the floor. His feet did the same. The consulting detective had not slept for three days on the last case. In fact, Sherlock had not bothered to do much of anything besides work.
And so John had worried.
But now, as he unlocked the flat, groceries balanced in one arm, he smiled and let out a heavy sigh of relief.
Sherlock would be content for a day or so. In fact, he would probably sleep for a day or so. If he was lucky, John could manage to rouse him from his slumber and get him to eat something. It was like this at the end of every long, tedious case. And this one had been particularly tedious. It had had to do with something involving a man who was convinced that the statues outside his house could move. Several people had gone missing around his estate and he firmly stated that it was the work of said statues. Scotland Yard dismissed the whole affair as lunacy, but Sherlock took the case without hesitation.
For three days, he worked without end. John remembered each night with vacuity. He too had found the case rather dull, and spent most of it dozing in his armchair, waking only when Sherlock needed him. In the end, he boiled it down to a particularly potent hallucinogenic drug recently developed in China. The man had to be taking it. There were no witnesses to attest to his claims. And so the case was closed.
This had been just yesterday.
John set the groceries down and walked softly into the living room. He sat down and stared at his flatmate. He frowned. Even in sleep, Sherlock's face still held that pompous air of superiority. The doctor scoffed. Tosser. But even as he looked, he was very glad that Sherlock was finally sleeping. He needed it, despite his vehement protesting. He was very much like a child in that way. "John, I don't need sleep!" he'd snap on an almost daily basis when he suggested it. And John would sigh and roll his eyes and further subject himself to it. "Sherlock, everyone does. It's how your body repairs itself."
"My body is fine!"
Hardly, John thought to himself as he gave his friend a good once-over. Dark circles were present underneath his eyes when you looked from this distance. Hair, messy. But not the messiness of a person who had slept all day. He'd been out then, no doubt to tie up any loose ends on the case before he came home and collapsed. Scarf, carefully draped over his armchair while his coat was sprawled on the floor in front of the fireplace. John sighed. He must have been exhausted to fling it in such a hurry. His night clothes looked thrown on.
John stooped to pick up the damn thing. Lord knows he'd slip on it later and hurt himself in the latest case's excitement. The last thing they needed was a broken consulting detective. Mrs. Hudson would be beside herself. And Lestrade would most likely have a stroke. The papers alone would have a field day. Couldn't be helped then. He'd have to clean after him, just as he always had. However, despite being around the detective so long and picking up so many of his habits, John's deduction skills still required some work.
For he failed to take into account the position of the mantelpiece in relation to his rising body. His head collided solidly with the wood.
"Damn my head!" It wasn't until the pain stopped that John realized how loudly he had sworn. He turned around. The quiet, peaceful breathing of his flatmate had ceased. Instead, he was met with a single irritated blue eye, half-open and bleary, gazing at him. "Sorry." John said. Sherlock only continued to glare, still sprawled on the couch, face still pressed against the upholstery. Sheepishly, John went and put the coat on its proper peg, Sherlock's eye following him the whole way.
The consulting detective blinked slowly before righting himself. Face still half-asleep, still annoyed, he rose in a single languid, elegant motion, sweeping his robe about himself. He placed one foot on the table before stepping on and over it to go to the window. The entire sight was silent and John watched him warily. Sherlock swept the curtain aside with one pale hand and gazed outside.
"Um…Sherlock?" John said. He continued to look out the window. In return, John sighed and rolled his eyes. Oh for Godssake, another primadonna detective moment. "Right. I'm making coffee, do you want any?" he called as he walked into the kitchen. There was a low grumble from behind him.
"Sorry?" John poked his head out of the doorway. Sherlock made no mention of hearing him. His back was still to him, still at the window. He waited patiently a few moments more for the detective to speak again. His words were sluggish, quiet. "It's five in the afternoon, John." He muttered.
John's brow marred in confusion. "Yea, and?" he ducked back into the kitchen and brought out two mugs. One black with two sugars. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. How in the hell he ever managed to stomach the stuff was beyond him. Sherlock muttered some darkly again as John sat down. He raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"
Sherlock ignored him. He closed his recently opened laptop and sighed, leaning back in his chair. He narrowed his eyes at the consulting detective. "What, Sherlock?" he asked. His tone was one of steadily increasing irritation. It had been a long, boring, and slightly annoying day, and the last thing he wanted was a whining flatmate, if truth be told. John waited patiently, hands crossed together on his knee and eyes fixed on his friend.
"You…" Sherlock said slowly.
"Okay, "me" right I got that part." John nodded, leaning forward slightly. "Anything else, Sherlock?" the doctor waited for a moment more. He did not expect the consulting detective to suddenly wheel around and face him. Nor did he expect his face to look the way that it did. It was dark and angry and half-mad. John was slightly taken aback.
"YOU..." the sound was a hiss. "SHOULD HAVE LET ME SLEEP."
Eyes small and narrowed, the consulting detective skulked over to the couch again. He leapt gracefully on to it and brought his knees up to his chest. He wrapped his arms around them and lowered his head. From the protection of such a position, his blue eyes glared at John from over his arms. John was trying very hard not to smile. A tiny one slipped up and Sherlock's glare deepened.
Leaning over, John picked up his mug and offered it to the overgrown man-child.
"Coffee?"
Sherlock snatched it from his hands and sipped it, sulking, close to his chest.
John grinned. "Better?"
"Oh shut up." The consulting detective snapped.