John awoke the next morning, not on the sofa, which was a first for that week, but in his bed. He blinked awake, rolling over to see if Sherlock was within kissing distance. Upon seeing the other side of the bed empty and clearly not slept on, he remembered where Sherlock was, and Kansas isn't within kissing distance, not for John anyway.
Pouting, he rolled back over to glare at the ceiling with as much of the full force of a John Watson rage as he could manage at seven in the morning. He was so cross that it took him a while to notice a second slip of paper tucked into the light fitting. That hadn't been there last night. Had it? John didn't know and he found it hard to care as he used the bed as a makeshift trampoline in an effort to grab the note.
After a few minutes of vigourous jumping, some pretty magnificent bruises to his forehead, and some muffled swearing, John managed to grab the note and he sat down eagerly to read it.
John thought that he must have been going mad, because he will swear to this day that he heard Sherlock's deep voice as he read.
John,
Once again I am sorry, yet I can't help but laugh at the idea of you, my compact doctor, jumping up and down on our bed as you try to catch this letter. I assume you've succeeded, well done love.
John snorted here, Sherlock really was an arrogant prat, why did John love him again?
But I digress, you know I love you John, more than anything or anyone. I don't know what I've done to deserve you John, but I'd do it for every single day of my life and every day after I die if I had to.
Huh. Oh yeah, that's why.
So, today, you brave little soldier you, I'd like to send you on a little journey. Not a long one, not a dangerous and arduous one, and every step of the way, I promise to remind you how much I love you, but more importantly, why.
Now, if you would take a trip on down to the kitchen that would be perfect.
S.
John chuckled, a journey, eh? Sherlock sure did know how to woo a man, or how to woo a John Watson at least. He dragged himself off the bed, pausing momentarily to pull on his jeans, and headed downstairs.
A third note was stuck into the doorframe, lower down this time.
Good boy. Now where shouldn't I keep the thumbs again?
John smirked, they'd had this discussion just days before he'd left.
"No Sherlock! I don't care. Thumbs. Fridges. In no way are the two ever to mix again. Understood?"
"But John I sterilis—"
"Don't 'but John' me. Are we clear?"
Sherlock hadn't answered; he'd merely flounced over to the sofa and flopped onto it. John took the light violin music that drifted up the stairs later that night, and the warmth that came with a consulting detective curling himself around you at three am as a "Yes John, yes it is understood. I'm sorry and I love you by the way."
John stepped over to the fridge find a small box where Sherlock had left the thumbs, with a sheet of paper on the top.
Reason I love John Watson #1.
He tells me when I've stepped out of line. Not the way Mycroft does it, with a patronising smile and a twirl of his umbrella, quite honestly I don't think John has it in him. Not like Anderson or Donovan, with a twisted sneer and a short and sweet "freak", but gently and simply. Now is as good a time as any to admit that I require your guidance John, an awful lot of the time, and you give it to me with no strings attached. Although I'm not afraid to say that I often attach strings anyway, not that you seem to mind when I have my way with you. Also, I know John is fond of croissants at breakfast.
John smiled, and opened the box. It was empty but for a ten-pound note folded elegantly into the shape of a swan, and almost predictably a slip of yellow paper.
I said a journey didn't I? You know where to go.
