.
.
By the end of this afternoon, John swears he will never enter another variety shop with Sherlock.
Sherlock has managed to scandalize a grand total of twenty-three people, including the shopkeeper assistants, by walking around in his dressing gown, flaunting his skinny, knobby-arsed legs and criticizing the service so loudly and abruptly that John swears he has seen one of the girls with a tag pinned to her blouse dabbing her eyes with a hanky in the employee's section.
"You are a menace—" John hisses out, ripping away the box of wheat-flake cereal out of Sherlock's hand as the other man spins and gracefully twirls a canary yellow brolly. "An utter—"
"—is it always this boring here?" Sherlock murmurs, furrowing his brow and peering around.
John's shoulders lower from trembling near his ears. A frustrated sigh.
"I wish it was," John mutters, eyeing him dutifully.
Keeping his brand new fiance home would have been the right decision. But they were out of food. And, no, John cannot live on dirty sink water and cigarettes like Sherlock has tried to.
Sherlock ended up temporarily hospitalized from a lack of nutrients, passing in and out of consciousness, refusing to be fussed over but occasionally winding his fingers through John's own fingers, thumbing sleepily over the back of his hand. John has felt guilty for days — which is probably why he allowed Sherlock to roam around in his pants and clinched-up dressing gown. For god's safe.
During his reflection on the past week, John notices Sherlock's disappearance. He groans, panicking and sprinting to the other aisle. No sign of him. Not in the refrigerator aisle either.
One of the shopkeeper assistants points John to the live bee section. There's a live bee section.
Sherlock pokes around one of the large, wooden crates labeled "Clover Honey" in fancy scroll lettering, making a vaguely intrigued grunt. The other crate buzzes so noisily that John can feel it banging around his skull. "No! No, no no, no," John shouts, grabbing over Sherlock's arm.
"Honey wildflower" buzzes and buzzes endlessly, and beneath it's label are the multiple red signs: CAUTION. DANGER. DO NOT LIFT LID. BEES WILL ESCAPE. PLEASE ASK FOR ASSISTANCE.
They're never going to be able to shop on Bickenhall Street ever again.
.
.
Nightfall has the odor of rainwater and freshly paved cement.
John collapses into his favourite sitting chair, watching Sherlock calmly pace their living area and sipping from his glass of red wine. The other man has dressed himself a comfortable pair of grey, lined trousers and half-buttoned white shirt, cradling his violin and playing absently, eyes shut.
It's partly entertaining to see how his fiance effortlessly avoids every obstacle, while he sways and walks along the rugs, but it's Sherlock's music that truly captivates him. At least in that moment. It's really how a man appearing so ordinary himself carries a mind so vast and imaginative and clever, and can create delicate, sorrowful notes with just a few bundles of coiled strings and horsehair.
John's youthful bumbling with clarinet in primary school doesn't compare.
"Is this menacing to you as well, John?"
Sherlock's pale blue eyes reopen, landing on him. John's mouth feels dry and swollen.
"Absolutely not," he replies, clearing his throat gruffly, fighting down the obvious nature of being astounded by Sherlock constantly. "I rather think it's beautiful. Where is it from?"
"I was composing something… for you," Sherlock admits lowly, gazing down on his violin purposely. John thinks his heart skips a beat or two. It's not really possible for your heart to do that, but, he's not entirely sure what's real at the moment. "For the wedding, more like. If there's a wedding. Not sure. Mycroft will invite himself even if we happen to lose his envelope."
"Well," John says aloud, almost cheerfully, hopping out of his chair and bringing his hands together in a decisive, sharp clap. "We could always elope… get our vows together before preparing and vanish into Portugal before Mycroft figures it out. I'm alright with no ceremony."
He adjusts his green-and-yellow striped jumper, approaching Sherlock who smiles a little. "Thank you," Sherlock whispers, leaning down to press a warm, featherlight kiss against John's mouth.
"I would like it if you came to bed, Sherlock… but s'alright if not."
According to the mantle-clock, it's nearly dawn and Sherlock's ruddy, soft lips widen into a cunning kind of grin. The kind of irresistible that heats John's blood and makes it sing.
Sherlock carefully sets down his violin, sliding his hands over John's face, kissing him deeper.
They'll never be boring, John realises.
And that's brilliant.
.
.
BBC Sherlock isn't mine. IS THIS THE FIRST TIME I'VE EVER WRITTEN FOR JOHNLOCK? POSSIBLY. It's entirely possible. I'm not gonna check. I DO NOT CARE IF JOHNLOCK HAS GONE OUT OF STYLE FOR THE FANDOM TIMES. I'M STILL GONNA SHIP IT WHENEVER THE HECK I WANT. It's the Sherlock Secret Santa and for my giftee WHO ACTUALLY GIFTED TO ME TOO AND I AM STILL SO HONORED who is eccentric-consultingdetective on Tumblr! AMAZE. Okay so if anyone Johnlock people are wandering around, I would love to see your reactions on this and any thoughts you had! :D Thanks for checking this out!