Morning
"Good morning, Sherlock! Tea? Biscuits?"
John stood, arms crossed in the middle of their living room.
The noise of Londons´ rush hour could be heard through the open window and smog was streaming in together with it. The men and women normally shouting numbers at each other in the City were now fleeing town, like a ship that sunk.
Sherlock, still a bit gloomy from this forced rest, uncurled on the sofa, stretched and wriggled his toes at John.
"Morning? You mean afternoon. It IS nine to five, isn´t it?" Sherlock lifted his eyebrows at his flatmate, now looking at him, but keeping his arse firmly seated on his precious couch, making it clear not to have any intention to get up.
Just as John parted his lips to answer, Sherlock added "Tea would be nice. Two sugars."
John seemed like he wanted to respond, but changing his mind with shaking his head little, he turned and started into the direction of the kitchen, like a dutiful soldier would.
John:
I really shouldn´t let him get away with that. Especially not after the night he brought me. I don´t seem able to really reject him. Maybe I should see the psychiatrist on that matter. Damn him and his bloody `out of bed`-look. His shirt travelling up his body, revealing pale, smooth skin. His eyes shining light grey. His hair all tousled, his locks framing his face. It is… not handsome at all. Not handsome.
Sherlock:
John. John. John. My mind won´t shut up about you. John. John. John. We´ve only been flatmates for eight months, nine days, four hours and two minutes. John. John. John. So why are you filling that much space in my mind palace? John. John. John. Because your eyes shine brighter when you´re annoyed, or amused? John. John. John. Because there always seems to be the hint of a grin on your lips? John. John. John. Because you´re putting up with me like that? John. John. John.
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