Title: Making the Connection
Story Summary: A non-chronological collection of short chapters based on one word prompts, includes (pre-)slash for Johnlock & Mystrade
Chapter Summary: A bit of early morning post-case haze at 221B. Johnlock. Prompt: Recycle
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Moffat, Gatiss & SACD.
A/N: Here I'd like to thank the lovely floppybelly. Without her I'd never even started writing these little chapters and without her reviews I might've given up by now. So thank you. As always this prompt came from oneword(dot)com, if you'd like to prompt me you can do so in a review or a PM.
The shop around the corner was open from six in the morning until ten thirty at night. But in the last week he still somehow had managed to always find the doors closed when he came home and had time to shop. It was a testimony to his radically changed lifestyle. From getting his last cup of tea served by his mum, to getting it out of twenty-four hour vending machines at the library and the cafeteria, to getting none at weeks on end because coffee was easier to brew on the edge of a city in the middle of the desert. And now he had to recycle his tea bags because he couldn't find the time to go to the store when it was actually open.
Dawn was already beginning to creep over London's rooftops but he was still too hyped up from last night. They had solved yet another case, but he would have to write it up later, he really couldn't be bothered right now. He sank down in his armchair with his cup of tea in hand, looking at Sherlock who had passed out from exhaustion on the couch.
It was seldom that the house was so quiet when all of them were home. No rattling from downstairs, no typing, no pacing, just the clinking of his spoon meeting the walls of his tea cup as he stirred the milk in.
Sherlock often lay on the couch, deep in thoughts with his eyes closed, but his facial muscles were never really relaxed, his hands always in some elegant pose propped up somewhere on his body. Now he was lying on his side, facing John, one of his hands tucked in under his cheek, the other lying loosely next to his chest. The long legs bent a little, so that he could fit on the couch at all. His barber appointment four days ago was cancelled due to them being on the case, so the soft curls he had been complaining about for the last three days now hung almost in front of his eyes.
John picked his book up from the floor and enjoyed reading a few pages in silence while he drank his tea. When his cup was empty he looked over at Sherlock again. The detective's knees had gradually moved up, he was getting cold in his silk shirt and fine trousers. John got Sherlock's duvet from his bedroom and covered his sleeping friend with it.
Immediately Sherlock's hands took hold of the midnight blue satin and snuggled into it, a pleased sigh escaping from his lips. John couldn't help but smile and brush away the soft curls from his best friend's eyes. He loved the looking for evidence, the chases, the adrenaline rushes. But somehow these little moments, when he got to see Sherlock like nobody else did, they were just as appreciated.
Yes, these little stolen moments belonged all to him. With that thought he bent down to kiss the pale, warm skin of Sherlock's forehead before he slowly went upstairs to his bedroom to get a bit of sleep himself.