Trigger warning
"Okay, so: baby, honey, sugar, pumpkin, candy—John, why does this list consist mainly of food items?"
The doctor shrugged. "I'm hungry."
The detective rolled his eyes and attempted to remove himself from the couch, but it became obvious that his blogger would not let him up.
He had hold of the detective's feet, effectively holding him to the couch.
"John. What are you doing?"
The doctor smiled and pulled one of the detective's feet into his lap.
"What the he—" His words were cut off by a burst of completely uncharacteristic giggles.
John held the detective's foot in his lap, tickling the underside and watching as the detective dissolved into giggles. "Ticklish, are we? That's good to know."
Sherlock managed to look annoyed despite his giggling. "John. John, please stop... I was only going to grab you... Grab you some crisps or... or something—"
John's smile grew wider. "And my laptop?" the doctor asked, pausing in his ministrations.
Sherlock nodded, trying desperately to wriggle his way free.
"Kiss on it?"
The detective rolled his eyes and huffed. "Honestly, John."
The doctor squinted. "What?"
"That is so juvenile."
John laughed again. "Says the man who stabbed a Cluedo board to the wall when he lost."
Sherlock sat up, his arms crossed over his chest. "That game was horrible, John. There is no way that any of those murders could actually have taken place in that manner."
The doctor smirked.
"Actually, from a non-linear, non-subjective point of—"
"Oh, no you don't."
The detective gripped the doctor's shoulders gingerly and kissed him softly. "There. I kissed on it. You win."
John released the detective's feet and leaned back, smiling lopsidedly as Sherlock grabbed his laptop and the crisps and tossed them on the couch.
"Anything else, your majesty?" Sherlock huffed, arms crossed as he loomed over the doctor.
He simply shrugged. "Unless you can magically heal me, then no, I'm as good as I get."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, flopping onto the couch and staring at the ceiling while John typed away at his computer, chronicling the events of the day as best as he could.
Obviously it was a heavily edited version.
After half an hour of Sherlock strolling through his mind palace and John typing and eating, the detective shifted his gaze from the ceiling to the laptop screen.
He effortlessly scrolled through the lines of text on display, smiling and frowning at all the appropriate points.
"After a completely infuriating dinner with Sherlock, (it actually started out as a rather nice one. Who didn't see THAT ending badly?) I stormed out of the restaurant, intent on taking a stroll to calm down. It wouldn't do, after all, to murder one's flat mate over a miscommunication.
I had managed to get myself completely and utterly lost, in in the shadier sides of town to boot.
Three thugs appeared from an alleyway. Two grabbed me while a third held a gun to my head.
I managed to wrestle the gun away from him and ended up wounding him in the process."
"Killing. He's dead, John."
The doctor turned slightly, not expecting Sherlock's head to be so close to his shoulder.
He huffed. "Yes, I do know that, Sherlock. However, it may not be the best decision to admit to murder on a very popular website heavily followed by New Scotland Yard."
Sherlock nodded, because he had a point. "Still, it would do to put the facts in."
He simply shook his head.
"I managed to wrestle the gun away from him, and ended up seriously wounding him in the process."
The detective nodded his approval.
"He didn't die immediately, I'm sure. That's probably the most accurate statement."
John hung his head for a moment. "You aren't making me feel any less guilty, Sherlock."
The detective jumped slightly. "What do you feel guilty for? It was self-defense."
The doctor sighed and leaned stiffly into Sherlock's side. "Because I took a life. Someone isn't breathing because of me. Someone's son."
Sherlock appraised the condition of his blogger, rearranging the John wing of his mind palace to accommodate this new data.
John was so caring and considerate, even to his enemies.
Far from the ruthless soldier that Sherlock had first considered him to be.
He could see now how that particular aspect of the whole ordeal was weighing on the doctor.
He wanted to say that it was probably for the best, but thought against it.
"You aren't a bad person, John. Far from it."
John chuckled, ignoring the sting of his ribs. "I know. I still hate that part though."
Sherlock nodded, curling is arm gingerly around the doctor.
The whole position was new and awkward, but John seemed fine, so Sherlock decided he could suffer it.
For now.
"Scroll down, I want to keep reading."
"One of the two other men pulled a knife.
I kept struggling, and he buried it to the hilt in my thigh, effectively crippling me so that they could gag me and tie my wrists.
A fourth thug tied a bag over my head and dragged me into a van.
I heard them fretting over how bad their buddy's injury was.
The car ride was spent with me—quite literally—in the dark, before being out of a van and tossed against a wall.
From there I was shackled, arms and legs splayed in an X.
I was like this for what felt like hours, until the bag was ripped from my head.
I blinked into the suddenly glaring light to see a dark figure standing just outside my circle of light, phone out.
He had an American accent, which confused me at first, as I didn't know of any Americans that Sherlock had managed to piss of.
Then again, who hasn't he managed to piss of?"
Sherlock scoffed. "Really? Is that necessary?"
John tilted his head and smiled softly. "You said that you wanted the truth."
The detective laughed.
"The American, who I later came to know as Victor Trevor—"
"Is it okay if I use his name?" John sounded genuinely concerned.
Sherlock nodded his approval. "Yea, it's kind of needed, I think. Besides, the people who know what I—What he is to me, they already know this story."
The doctor could barely contain the rolling in his stomach.
"Keep going, John."
"—was threatening Sherlock over the phone, ransoming me out.
Obviously, this is a completely ineffective method of getting something from Sherlock as:
A) Sherlock does not cater to criminals.
B) He's a bloody genius. You are not going to trick him into giving you something by threatening ME. Honestly.
C) Who the hell has £10,000 just lying around?
D) Did I mention that it's Sherlock Holmes we're talking about here?"
"That is completely false! The best way to get to me is through you. You know that!"
Again, John let out a long suffering sigh. "I know, Sherlock. I'm your biggest weakness. I remember… well, err, the Fall."
Both men paused at that.
"But telling the WORLD that is not the best option, now is it?"
Sherlock had to admit, it really wasn't.
"Fine. Lie to them."
"The call ended with me attempting to tell Sherlock not to bother, which, of course, resulted in me screaming into my gag.
Trevor didn't like that idea.
So after a really rather generic speech over how much better he was—and a few more instances of physical assault—he decided it was time to call Sherlock again.
The time limit was set, the address given, and Sherlock managed to destroy my phone at the end of the call.
Victor taunted me and threatened me again, and when I failed to respond to his liking, he drugged me."
"Alright, I know the story from here." Sherlock's voice was subdued, and the way he was clutching at John made it clear that he didn't want to read any further.
"That's alright. It's just a rough draft anyway. I'll flesh it out and make it a bit more coherent later."
The detective simply nodded. He leaned in to kiss John's cheek.
There was heavy air over the two of them now, neither one knowing what to say.
Finally, it was John who broke the silence. "You know, I really hate being cooped up in here. Do you think we could go out for a bit?"
"You can barely move, John. The last thing you need to be doing is going out."
John looked up at Sherlock pleadingly.
"No."
Damn those eyes.
"Here, how about a compromise?"
John nodded. "I'm listening."
"I'll go rent us a few movies, and pick up some food, and then we can watch them."
Now John was intrigued. "You, Sherlock Holmes, are going to have a movie night?"
The detective shrugged. "I have nothing better to do."
John shrugged, and then smiled.
"Alright, but don't take too long or I may have to call Harry back here."
Sherlock's face fell into a mask of horror. "I'll be quick."
He dashed into his room and dressed quickly, bounding out the door before John could manage to turn around.