The air was cold as he left the surgery and the light weight jacket he had left wasn't enough against the wind. John groaned, realising he was going to have to buy a coat too. Maybe he'd got to Oxfam and hope for the best.
His phone was heavy in his pocket and he hadn't turned it back on since that morning. He knew Sherlock would be pissed about being ignored, and he'd probably missed a call from the fire investigator or the insurance company, but he didn't really care.
He was cold and he wanted a coffee. He walked into the little shop on the corner. He didn't look at the menu, not wanting to think about the fact that he was wasting five pounds. The line was relatively short and as John moved up to place his order, a small red-headed woman took over at the register.
She said something to the man making the drinks and then looked back at John.
"What can I get you?" she asked, smiling up at him. She had alarming green eyes and John was momentarily stunned by them, ignoring the ring in her nose and the visible tattoo on her neck.
"Um," he stumbled for a minute before opening and closing his mouth. Her smile grew as she watched him. "Just a, um, medium café mocha please," he managed. The green eyes stayed on his for just a moment before she looked at her register and put in his order.
He fumbled with the money as he paid her, his hands shaking. He felt his cheeks go red and tried not to meet her eyes when he handed her the money.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"John," he said and paused before adding: "Watson" for some unknown reason.
She smiled again as she wrote John Watson on the cup and handing it over to the man making the drink.
"Well John," she paused, "Watson. I hope you have a great one. Come back again. I always like making a man blush."
John paused before breaking out in to an embarrassed chuckle, but the easy smile on the girls face took away any harshness. She was trying to make him feel better. He stared at her another second before she turned and took the next order. A moment later a man handed him his coffee and he walked out of the shop.
There was an Oxfam shop a street over from the hotel and John managed to find a coat there. It was a little big but it would suffice for now. He also picked up another outfit for Sherlock. He knew his husband would be more annoyed that there was only one and the clothing was used, but John found he didn't care.
He stared at the 'John Watson' on the cup before tossing it in the bin outside the Oxfam and headed back to the hotel. He was dreading it and chastised himself. He was going to have to deal with Sherlock eventually, might as well get it over with.
He grabbed the key card out of his wallet and let himself into the room
It was a mess.
There were several plastic plates strewn about the room, each containing food in various states of consumption. There were a number of plastic cups about and the milk that he'd bought last night sat open and warm on the counter. Sherlock was sitting on the bed, in the midst of a massive sulk, wearing the chequered shirt John worn yesterday and the plaid pyjama bottoms John had bought for him. There were several pairs of boxers on the bed, and John's trousers from the day before which had been carefully hung in the small closet were now on the floor beneath the table.
John set the Oxfam bag at his feet and held up his hands. "What the hell is this?" he asked.
"I was bored," Sherlock stated and John's arms dropped to his sides.
"You had a telly and a phone you couldn't keep yourself occupied for one damn day."
"You were ignoring me," Sherlock snapped.
"I was working," John snapped back. "Making money so that we can pay for the destruction you caused yesterday."
Sherlock glared at John for a moment before turning and staring at the blank telly. "Clearly it was an accident."
John shook his head again and picked up the bag. "I'm not sure that lunatic playing with hydrogen gas and a blowtorch qualifies as an accident." He said it almost under his breath but he didn't miss the change in Sherlock's expression. And when the detective spoke the words had no emotion at all. They were just cold.
"Are you suggesting that I did this deliberately?" John set the bag on the table, reaching down to pick up his trousers and shake them out. They were too wrinkled and he was going to have to find a place to do laundry so he'd have something to wear tomorrow.
"Not at all," John said honestly, tossing them over a chair and pulling the few things out of the bag. "You don't always think things through. Most people hear 'hydrogen gas' and think 'Hindenburg'. You hear 'hydrogen gas' and think 'flame thrower'. It never occurs to you that your more dangerous experiments might actually hurt people. You for example."
He paused and looked at his husband. Sherlock still had his arms crossed and was looking thoroughly angry. John continued, not masking his own emotions.
"What would have happened if the explosion had knocked you backwards and you'd hit your head? Mrs. Hudson would have gotten out anyway, but would you? Does it bother you that police officers or the fire brigade or whoever delivers the news in those moments might have come to the surgery to tell me, not only that my flat was basically destroyed but that my husband was dead?" The grey eyes flickered at that and John frowned. "Obviously not. I mean, why would I be given any consideration at all? I'm just John." His voice raised as he continued: "My husband almost died, my home was destroyed." He got louder still. "Why should I bother being angry? It doesn't mean anything. It's just my stuff, my belongings, my memories. I have no idea what I have left and what was destroyed, but you're right, Sherlock. The most important thing is that you didn't meanto do it. You absolutely shouldn't take any kind of responsibility. I'd hate for it to get out that you're a right old idiot."
John grabbed the bag and tossed it on the bed. "Here's another outfit. I don't want to hear a damn word about it, wear it or don't. I don't care. The coat is for me. If you need one, go get one. You're an adult. I'm going to take a shower and then I'm going to figure out where the hell I can do laundry. YOU," he pointed, "are going to clean this up and you aren't going to complain when you don't have milk for your damn tea."
There was still anger in the grey eyes, but there was something else as well. John thought it might have been the realisation that he was genuinely angry - and justifiably so. Sherlock rarely handled that very well. John didn't care though, he honestly didn't care.
He stalked passed his husband and into the bathroom. He closed the door harder than was necessary and turned the water on, hot.
Sherlock wasn't there when he was done. Instead he was greeted with a semi-clean hotel room. The bin was too small for all the trash Sherlock had accumulated so he'd piled it in one place on the tiny counter. The milk container had been emptied and was sitting next to the pile along with several empty bags of crisp. John sighed, grabbed an extra bin liner and dumped the pile inside. He set it by the door and would take it out when he found a place to do laundry.
There was a small directory on the bedside table that described local restaurants and such. This was clearly a hotel that specialised in the business travellers so John assumed there must be information on a local dry cleaner or laundry service. There wasn't any so he picked up the phone and called the front desk. While he was waiting for them to answer he looked into the Oxfam bag that was still sitting on the bed, the clothing he'd bought for Sherlock was gone, so the detective hadn't left wearing only his pyjamas. John looked around, not immediately seeing the pile of discarded clothing and finally peaked between the bed and the wall. There they were. He reached down to grab them so they could be washed just as a female voice answered the phone.
The hotel had a laundry room in the basement. John was delighted - he could go there in his pyjamas.
Sherlock still wasn't back when John came up with the small pile of folded clothing. He put it away and opened the small fridge, looking for something to eat. Sherlock hadn't managed to waste all the food so he heated up a small mug of soup, settled on the bed and turned on the telly. He selected a channel at random, grabbed his phone and, for the first time in hours, turned it on.
He was met, not surprisingly with dozens of messages from Sherlock. He scrolled through them, not really reading any of them except the last one. It was sent after John had got in the shower.
Lead on a case, back late.- SH
John stared at it, sighed and deleted them all. He dialled his voicemail and listened to his messages. One from Lestrade saying that he doesn't think that there will be any criminal charges. One from the investigator confirming this, but saying that they still needed to talk. Another from the investigator saying that the house would be released in ten days and that they could have a contractor there the day before to evaluate the damage and go over details with a representative of the fire brigade. John would just need to find a contractor and call to set a time. No items could be removed from the house until then. John sighed, he'd need more clothes, so would Sherlock. The last one was from Mycroft. John groaned when he heard the calculating voice on the other end of the phone. Mycroft was in America but would be back in two days. He had heard about the fire and that everyone was all right. Sherlock naturally wasn't taking his calls so he wanted John to know if there was anything they needed, he'd provide it.
John thought about it as he tossed his phone on the bed. He knew Mycroft would loan them the money but he didn't like the idea of Sherlock being indebted to his brother. He also sure as hell knew that Mycroft could get them into a better hotel, probably for free. Suddenly the idea of being confined with Sherlock in the tiny room was overwhelming. John took a deep breath and pushed down the anxiety. He didn't need that as well. And he was alone at that moment, and he could always go out with Harry or one of his friends if it became too much. He seriously doubted Sherlock wanted to spend that much time confined with him either. They were definitely a couple that needed alone time.
He'd talk to Sherlock about it later, when he wasn't furious. It was something they should consider anyway.
John rinsed the mug and set it on a small towel to dry. He pulled the blankets back and climbed into bed. He was suddenly exhausted and it was barely dark. He hadn't slept much the night before though so it wasn't unexpected. And maybe if he was asleep before Sherlock the coughing wouldn't bother him.
He was vaguely aware several hours later of his husband climbing into bed beside him. He was on his back and turned his head slightly towards the familiar presence. He had a flash of anger when a long arm settled across his chest - he was still upset after all - but it was too much of an effort to wake up the rest of the way.
John was walking toward the surgery, the new coat surprisingly warm in the cool morning air. He'd talked to Mrs. Hudson a few minutes ago and she sounded better, and genuinely seemed not to be angry. Part of that was because she trusted John to get it taken care of and part of it was because she was drinking too much sherry with her sister. John would take it, he'd hate to add 'find a new place to live' to his already too long 'to do' list.
He stopped at a corner and was waiting for a light when a woman moved to stand next to him. She was carrying a cup of coffee and it smelled delightful. Sherlock had been asleep so he hadn't made tea, there was still no milk to put in it if he had. He eyed the coffee shop on the corner, he considered not going because of his awkward encounter the day before, but shook his head. What were the chances she'd be there again?
She was and she offered him the same pretty smile and the same green eyes. He smiled as she wrote his name on the cup without having to ask him for it and it grew as she told him to have a good day.