John woke up, the screams of his men in his ears. He inhaled heavily and opened his eyes, expecting to count water marks on the drop ceiling like he always did to calm himself of the empty bedsit.
Plaster ceiling. The gray dots Sherlock attributed to an old tenant's champagne. The burn mark they'd never been able to get out after Sherlock set fire to a curtain. Scratches where the window glass had once exploded into the room. He inhaled slowly, wrapping himself in the familiar smell of dust and formaldehyde. 221B.
"What are you doing, Sherlock? Sitting here with that old thing?"
Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen, nagging Sherlock. Sherlock huffed.
"It's a compound microscope, Mrs. Hudson," he protested and John smiled, hearing Mrs. Hudson sniff.
"You have him here and you're working on a case?" she whispered too loudly. "You're not going to get a thousand chances, Sherlock."
John's smile melted.
"I have one thing to offer him, one reason he's here, and that's the work," Sherlock snapped.
"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson cooed. John exhaled slowly, trying to stay out of Sherlock's awareness, at least for long enough for the conversation to change.
"Do not expect for an instant that, were it not for Magnussen and the allure of violence that John Watson would be in my living room," Sherlock hissed.
Three weeks until Christmas. And no excuse to keep them together. John inhaled again. Dust and formaldehyde. He didn't want to leave. Why did he feel like he had no choice? What kept him locked into that crappy little bedsit?
He couldn't move in. They both knew that. He just couldn't be sitting on Sherlock's floor, naked again. He'd had every shred of pride peeled from him. It was time to start growing it back.
He wouldn't move in. But he wouldn't run away. And he could bloody well accept that he'd wanted Sherlock Holmes in his arms since he'd met the man and just leave it at that. It wasn't going to happen. But he wasn't going anywhere. They could bloody well make up why not if they needed an excuse.
Decision made, John tugged his sling tight with his teeth and sat up with a groan. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were having a whispered argument in the kitchen. Or more accurately, Mrs. Hudson was still berating Sherlock while the man steadily ignored her.
"I gathered that," Sherlock drawled finally. Mrs. Hudson straightened, a hand on her hip, and frowned at the back of his head.
"You are missing what's right in front of you. Compound microscope," she scoffed, turning to leave. She caught John's eyes and pointed a finger at him angrily. "Both of you," she accused.
He knows what I wanted, John thought sadly.
"I down own a microscope, Mrs. Hudson," he said instead and she threw up her hands, discarding them both as helpless. Not disagreeing, John let her go.
He grabbed the now-dented kettle and approached the kitchen, nervous Sherlock was going to ask why he was still here. He certainly didn't have a comfortable answer.
"Found the kettle," he joked. Sherlock lifted his head from his work and stared at him, clearly missing the joke. "Janine - er - hid it," John explained awkwardly, turning to the sink to fill it. Sherlock blinked and returned to his microscope. John started the water for tea, trying to figure out if he left a toothbrush here and if it'd be too weird to go find it.
The water took too long to boil. John wandered around the kitchen, drumming a beat on his leg.
I have one thing to offer him, one reason he's here, and that's the work. That hadn't been true before. They'd had plenty of conversations, John remembered. Though he didn't want to do it all the same as before. He didn't know what the hell he was trying for anymore.
"Tea?" he asked and Sherlock grunted in the way he knew meant 'yes'. He only then remembered that Janine had killed all the mugs but the strangely shaped purple one an elderly client had presented to them as a gift for working without pay. He grabbed a surviving beer glass, knowing Sherlock wouldn't care what shape he drank out of, and poured for them both. All of their plates were in shattered pieces at Sherlock's feet. John decided not to mention it.
They'd had plenty of silence too, John remembered, wiping at the dingy cabinet where the mugs were supposed to be. Sherlock stayed glued to his work but John could feel him watching him.
John grabbed a newspaper from the pile next to where his chair was supposed to be and settled on the couch, knowing it'd be easier to turn the pages one-handed with the help of his knees.
~~/~~
He had nothing. He'd spent the entire night staring at the uselessly thawed scrap of flesh and hid nothing to show for it. No case and with the national media firmly moving on from his 'miraculous return from the dead'; very little chance of one. Nothing would keep John here and once he'd left, what would bring him to the family home for Christmas, to end the case with Sherlock? No, once John walked away again, he'd be gone. Sherlock knew that with more certainly than he'd felt for any case. But he didn't have anything he could do about it.
He kept his eyes on his fake work. He couldn't live with how it'd be otherwise. He wouldn't run after the man, begging for his friendship.
~~/~~
John waited until the quiet awkwardness in the flat had a couple hours to settle down. Then, with a full bladder and fuzzy-feeling teeth, he decided to push the envelope.
"Got - uh - got a new toothbrush around here?" he asked without looking up from a paper.
Christ. He sounded like a new lover. He'd said the same thing to Janette, the first time he'd stayed over.
"Under the sink. But your old one's in the vanity cabinet, on the bottom right," Sherlock replied.
Right. He hadn't ever brushed his teeth in 221B after the surgeries. He'd forgotten all about it. How had he forgotten?
Well then. John got to his feet and moved to the bathroom. The whole thing smelled like flowery soap when he walked through the door. It was still thick in the air, as if Janine had only just showered here. John coughed, looking around for the source. There was a whole pile of shampoos, body washes, and candles in the bin by the toilet. When Sherlock had ditched them all John wasn't sure, but he was grateful for it all the same. Janine was nothing to them, he could believe that. Just an ally, now. John dug around in the vanity for Sherlock's toothpaste and sat on the toilet to brush his teeth.
~~/~~
Author's friend's note: Gwendolynn has been fighting some poor health for a couple of weeks and so this is all the update she has left. It's not clear if she'll be able to update next week. Wish her a speedy recovery!