A/N: This one was mostly pointless. Also I'm going to give you fair warning - I'll probably be updating mostly only on the weekends for a while. Anyways, enjoy.

Word Count: 950+

Warning(s): filed under Things I Write on My iPhone at Three In the Morning. Possible trigger warnings for: child abuse, domestic abuse. Mentions and implications of near-casual sex as well as the usual kind. Some fluff.

Management

It was a rare thing to have John come home angry. He was a basically good, pleasant man. But he had his father's blood in him and if he gave his children anything, it was a temper.

When John did come home angry Sherlock was always there to attempt to console him. Sherlock, however, wasn't the best at consoling people and often ended up either getting into a physical fight with John. Though the brawling was intense and genuine, even at their angriest neither seriously hurt one another. Or, on lazier days, Sherlock just ripped his clothes off and let John let off steam that way. That method often hurt more than the fighting, actually, but Sherlock would be lying if he said that he minded.

That afternoon was, for all intents and purposes, no different. Except that it was.

John threw the door open, not apparently caring that the handle left a dent in the opposite wall, shouted "Shut up!" into the silent flat, and kicked his shoes off as if they had personally wronged him. Sherlock closed his laptop and turned to quirk an eyebrow at him but John just stormed past and flopped face first onto the couch. John practically radiated doom and gloom.

Sherlock sighed. "I hope you don't want to talk about it," he said. John snorted and shook his head before he curled into a tight, angry ball, face pressed into the couch cushion Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Do you want me to take off my clothes?"

John uncurled for a moment and looked at him, considering, only to curl up again. "Later," he said. Sherlock put the laptop down and walked over to crouch beside him.

"You're terribly romantic," Sherlock teased. When John's only reply was a grunt Sherlock sighed again. "John, you know I can't help you if you don't tell me how to. I'm not a creature of empathy." Still he reached out instinctively, rubbing circles into John's back.

"Ugh." John twisted so that half of his face was showing; his expression was scrunched. "What are you, my wife?"
Sherlock chuckled. "Of course not, John. I'm a man, and we certainly aren't married." He paused. "And you'd be the wife, John. You're much nicer and you do all the housework and the shopping. And look better in an apron."

"That's sexist." John's frown deepened and, seemingly out of the blue, he said, "We got a really hard one in today. At the clinic." Sherlock's eyebrows arched. John rarely wanted o talk when he was worked up – that was usually after either the angry domestic turned into fits of giggles or they'd both hit orgasm and Sherlock couldn't walk for the next two days. Still, Sherlock listened. "Two kids, sweetest darlings, a girl and a boy. Twins. They come in all the time for, ah, for check ups and things. But uh, today, they came in because the boy, Charlie I think. He had a fracture in his arm and when we took his shirt off there were… there were just… all this damage. It was so obvious."

Sherlock's rubbing grew rougher, just slightly. "Domestic abuse," he said. John nodded.

"I wanted to report it but his mom, she… she just looked so terrified of me, of what I might say. I don't even think I'm allowed to, anyway, Sarah acted so weird about it…" John sighed and screwed his eyes shut.

Sherlock bowed his head. "I'm sorry."

John smiled. "No," he said, "you're not. You're never sorry for things you didn't cause; you're detached that way." He was right; Sherlock shrunk a bit, nodded. John spotted Sherlock's reaction and the corners of his lips twitch upwards, fondness leaking through his dismal demeanor. "It's okay. I wouldn't have it any other way." Then, after a pause, he said, "What would make a guy do that, do you think? Just… abuse?"

Sherlock had plenty of responses to that, but none of them were the right one. He said nothing.

Slowly, carefully, John twisted around to sit on the floor beside Sherlock. After a short hesitation John scooted between Sherlock's legs and laid his head on Sherlock's chest, releasing a heavy breath. "I'm not like that guy, am I?" John whispered. "I don't want to hurt the people I love. I hate it."

Sherlock flushed slightly, taken aback by John's behavior. Then again, because he couldn't do anything else, Sherlock arched his neck and kissed John's hair. "When do you ever do that?"

"I hurt you," John mumbled. "We fight. I leave bruises, sometimes, I see them." A pause, tenuous, then: "I love you."

Sherlock swallowed, hard. It wasn't something they discussed often, feelings, nor the things they did behind closed doors. It went unspoken, more or less for doubt that any of it really existed. But John had broken the silence now and Sherlock said, "Would you believe me if I said I loved you, too?"
John stiffened. "Is it true?"

"Yes."

"Probably not. But thank you."

Sherlock slid his arm around John's waist, pulled him close, and then closer until they were laying flat on the floor. Sherlock closed his eyes, enjoying John's weight on his chest, John's breath on his neck, rubbing circles like promises into John's back. Eventually, Sherlock said, "You don't hurt me, John. Not where it counts."

John sighed, kissed Sherlock's neck."Thank you," he whispered. Then, quieter, "I'm sorry."

"Yes," said Sherlock, "I know. But you shouldn't be."

They laid there for a while after that, against each other on the floor, just listening to each other's breathing before Sherlock added, "As much as I enjoy this, the floor is uncomfortable. Can we have sex instead?"

John smiled.

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