For Kitty
John stands in the doorway of Sherlock's bedroom, leaning against the frame, exasperation plastered all over his tired face.
"What?" He asks in frustration.
Sherlock is stretched out on his back above the bed covers, pyjamas loose on his slight frame. Without looking in the direction of the door he waves his hand towards his bedside unit.
"Pass me my gun"
"You text me at," John stops to check the clock on the wall, "Two-thirty in the morning to ask me to pass me your gun?"
"Obviously"
"Well promise me you will use it to shoot yourself" He turns around to head back up the stairs, "Oh – and leave any notes for your eulogy somewhere obvious, I don't want to have to go hunting for them in the morning"
"Why are you so ratty?" Sherlock asks, he still hasn't moved on the bed, still hasn't looked in John's direction.
"Ratty? Me? At being woken up in the middle of the night by a raging sociopath? It's not like I have clinic tomorrow or a date with Sarah in the evening."
"I take it back," Sherlock offers generously, "You can use the gun."
John sighs. It happens a lot. "Just go back to sleep Sherlock."
"I can't. I'm bored."
"You're always bored."
"Blow me" Sherlock sits up.
"Wha- what?"
"It's just the way your mouth hangs gormlessly open like that gives me ideas."
"No. Just – no."
"Stop talking, I've already pointed out there is a better use for those lips."
"Sherlock! Get back on the bed! On. The. Bed."
It isn't like Sherlock is grinning or anything; he is wearing his serious deducing face and this has John even more paranoid. He moves behind the doctor and for a split-second John thinks that maybe he is leaving...and then the detective pushes him forward so he trips over the aforementioned bed and lands on the mattress.
"See?" Sherlock asks, still not grinning; "Now you're on the bed." He leans over John, giving him enough space to turn over without being enough to accommodate running away.
Now Sherlock grins.
"Entertain me."
John has always had a problem disobeying direct orders from his flatmate and they both know it.
"There are plenty of prostitutes who can do it for you." John points out, mentally counting his heartbeat and subsequently panicking, "In fact," He adds, "I even jotted some numbers down in your diary for such an occasion." He isn't joking.
"But I want someone who loves me." The words are sarcastic, foreign sentimentality getting stuck around Sherlock's teeth; unfamiliar.
"I can love you again in the morning – right now I want to go to bed."
"You are in bed...and are you saying you love me already?" John squirms and then stops when he realises the place where their bodies touch is betraying him. Sherlock starts nuzzling his neck.
All the rational thoughts in John's head disappear out of the window. He would have seen them go if he hadn't have been so distracted.
"Oh God" He murmurs, "I'll do it, I'll do it!"
Sherlock breaks off abruptly and sits up. He glances at the clock. "Seven minutes: impressive. I am no longer bored – I count this as a successful experiment."
He is about to dismount (and ramble on and on knowing he now has the doctor's full attention), but before he can, John's combat training kicks in and he easily rolls Sherlock over so he is pinned beneath. He runs a thumb over the detective's lips. Maybe Sherlock's experiment is backfiring – maybe this was the desired result all along.
John smiles, sweet and not so innocent.
"There's a better use for your mouth..."
