Hola, apologies for not updating for what I think is about 3 or 4 months. My only exuses being that I was studying in the first couple of months and after that i was straight up supernatural watching and bioshock infinite playing. Anyway, right now im sitting in bed listening to Panic at the Disco's 'She Had the World', and Ryan Ross's voice has never urged me to write more simply because it's so pretty, that and My Chemical Romance. I feel I should write some amazing chapter and make up for being a terrible writer in the way that I never update, but honestly I dont believe this story is going anywhere. I mean, I have a couple of ideas for where it's going (well actually flamesofamonster had the ideas and shared them with me on a coach journey, yayay), so I think i'm going to end it soon, the main reason for me ever writing 'Luke Warm Cup of Tea' being to see if I could write smut. I hate to say that I need to end this story as I know as soon as I say it's certain and post that final chapter, my brain will come up with some fantasic ideas for John and Sherlock, so I don't know what to do, although I will be proceeding with some other fanfictions (destiel anyone?) Huh, enough of this nonsense, on with the show, thanks for your continued reading x
John stood at the sink, washing his hands for what felt like the hundredth time after he'd dealt with an unpleasant case earlier that morning. A man had come in complaining of back pain, only to reveal an abscess on his back that rather urgently needed to be rid of pus, a surgical job really but it wasn't large enough for the hospitals concern. John wondered to himself about how a man couldn't notice such a thing right in the middle of his body, but cast it aside as him not having a partner to tell him about it. If John had anything on his back then Sherlock would know about it, and vice versa.
221B had changed, for the better as John thought, in recent times. Firstly, John and Sherlock didn't have separate rooms anymore, instead sharing Sherlock's bed every night, tangled between shared sheets. This had been a problem to begin with, Sherlock complaining of not enough room for his prefered sleeping position, in which he would stretch one leg over the covers and have one tucked under, with arms under the pillow. This is how he started his night, often moving into even more contorted positions as the sun came up. accommodating to John's body had at first disturbed Sherlock's sleeping habits, but he'd adjusted to hearing John's snuffles and having a warm, responsive body pressed against his cool one. The next thing that had changed was their relationship status to everyone else.
Mrs. Hudson knew about them, having stepped in on them sharing a quick kiss as they went about their daily lives. She was flustered at first, embarrassed that she'd walked in on them, but Sherlock and John were more than happy for her to know, and though Mrs. Hudson was annoyed at them for not telling her in the first place, she became accustomed to it, commenting that she thought it was 'sweet' and that she 'knew it all along'. Scotland Yard finding out was worse. Greg knew straight away, he could tell from the way John looked at Sherlock, and the way Sherlock seemed to have a slightly more positive outlook on things, being slightly less macabre. Sherlock commended him for being the first to realise and decided that maybe Lestrade wasn't as stupid as he looked, this of course being a compliment in Sherlock's books. That was fine. What wasn't fine was other people's reactions. Some had avoided John and Sherlock altogether, barely looking them in the eye as they passed, not sure whether to say anything to them or not, wondering if they should burst into such a bubble of requited-ness. Others commented, not that their opinions were of any substance, one man even having the courage to walk up to John and tell him that in his opinion homosexuality was wrong. This man was shunned briefly by the most of people, but it was subtly agreed with by some. They at least believed that Sherlock and John should keep their relationship away from the Yard, which they did anyway. The whole problem was with Scotland Yard was the way that news could travel, the the small matter of small people with small ideas to match. When John discreetly asked Greg how everyone had found out he'd replied with 'Sally.' and carried on with their conversation. He didn't ask how Donovan had found out.
It didn't bother Sherlock that people talked, hearing the word 'fag' and 'gay' being passed around whenever he was nearby. He didn't particularly like the Yard, just a place to do paperwork, but their words did nothing to make him dislike it further. He just tuned them out most times, as he did with the majority of people. John took it slightly more to heart, his tough, army outer layer stripped away and dissected by people who shouldn't care as much as they did. John and Sherlock didn't go to the Yard much though, opting to collect any work and take it back to the flat, returning it in the post about a week later. That suited everyone.
The third thing that had changed was small but noticable, in the form of purrs that radiated around the flat. The arrival of a small cat. It wasn't by choice that they adopted it, rather the cat adopted them, swirling around Sherlock's trousers as he surveyed the scene.
'John get thing thing away from me.' he'd panicked.
The thing looked at him with inky eyes that reminded him of his own, and smooth black fur that was patchy in places. It mewed, revealing the points of small teeth and sat itself near Sherlock's foot.
'Go away.' Sherlock had said to it, even crouching to get to its level and looking at it right in the eyes. 'Shoo.'
It brushed its self up against Sherlock's hand, a bond having already formed that Sherlock wasn't aware of. 'John!' Sherlock whined, almost begging for him to take the thing away.
'Sherlock stop it, the poor thing's lost.' Joh replied, seeing it had no collar and was probably just some stray.
Sherlock crossed his arms. 'I can't work with it surrounding me.'
That was when a flash went of somewhere near them, behind it a reporter who scampered off.
'Great, people will think i'm a cat person now.' Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Sherlock Holmes Homes Stray.'
'Well why not?' John shrugged, stroking the young cat who was proving to be surprisingly friendly.
'It's vermin.'
'We're keeping it.'
'No we're not, if that thing is coming back to the flat then i'm not.'
'Grow up.'
John had already taken off his jumper and was bundling it up for the cat to nestle in.
'It's not practical!' Sherlock retorted. He wasn't entirely annoyed by the cat, but that he wasn't getting his own way.
John shook his head and remained stroking the cat that sat in his arms. 'Of course it'll have to be vaccinated.'
'Why do we need a cat?' Sherlock questioned, stopping what he was doing around the bloated corpse of a sailor and standing up.
'Because nobody else wants it.' John replied, touching his nose to the feline's 'Like nobody wants us.'
'Don't get too close, you'll catch something.' Sherlock ignored John's last comment. He didn't hate cats, or even dislike them, he was just indifferent about animals in general. Boring, demanding things.
'I'm going to take it to the vets, I'll see you back at the flat.'
John scarpered, opting not to take a taxi with the flea ridden being.
Greg, who they had both forgotten was there, made a whipping noise behind Sherlock.
When Sherlock arrived home, John had not yet returned.
He bought up some tabs on cat care and became slightly more accustomed to having one as a pet, mainly due to their independence and that he wouldn't have to be relied upon. He decided against complaining about it, ultimately wanting to make John happy. He liked to see John happy, but not as much as he loved to see him acting sarcastic and bitchy, reminding him that he wasn't a pushover like he first thought. John could even be dominant, taking charge in the bedroom, and the living room, and the kitchen table...wherever they happened to be making love that day. Sherlock remembered one occasion that involved the bath and a riding crop. Odd looking back on it.
John came back with the cat in a cage and other supplies.
'He's fine to stay with us, just need to sneak worming tablets into his food.' John said, letting the mewling cat out of its plastic enclosure, following the cat with his eyes as it darted around in panic.
'Is it going to do this all the time?' Sherlock asked rather boredly, crossing his arms and sighing as the young black cat presumed it was on a mission to knock everything over that wasn't fixed down in the flat.
'No, just while it gets used to the place, I'm going to ask Mrs. Hudson if I can install a flap.'
Sherlock nodded, stationary for a moment before chasing the cat as it darted past his skull. It made its way behind the fridge.
'Oh come on.' Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'For someone so little you're very messy.' He crouched before the fridge, trying to coax it out from behind. It hissed, arching a patchwork back.
'Come on.' he whispered, sticking out a wary hand for the kitten to smell. It purred quietly, and again loudly.
By the time John was back, having successfully installed a catflap with little complaint from Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock was sitting in his chair with the cat on his lap, talking to it about string theory, the cat mewing in response. Apparently Sherlock had gone all gooey and was playing with the cats paws.
'John can I name him?'
'If you'd like.'
'Mendeleev.'
'I'm not going to ask.'
Ugh that's just about the most boring chapter i've ever written. I think I may leave it here. I have a whisper of an idea for a story line but I dont know, have you all lost interest by now?
I hate to sound like a beg but if you'd like me to continue please say so, otherwise I'm done :)