Another shoutout to randomplotbunny, because they are still the only person review and this story was just that. A random plot-bunny. :3
Read, review; most importantly, enjoy!
When John lost the detective, he took a page from his book and joined into the same crowd that had hidden him from sight. He ruffled his hair, pulling up his jacket sleeves, and popped his collar up as he watched Sherlock pass him by, scouring the distance for him. Grinning, John left the crowd just around the corner and smoothed away his disguise, strolling leisurely down to Baker Street again.
He even cut through the park, smiling at a few couples as he sipped a hot cup of tourist coffee.
John sighed contentedly to himself as he walked, not having had a relaxing evening in the last few days. It had all started last Saturday, when Sherlock's frenetic tinkering and puttering had driven him to the sanctuary of the pub. After having drunk more than his fair share of beer, John had stumbled home early Sunday morning to find the detective still tinkering away, and nursed a wild, raging hangover a few hours later. Monday came all too soon and, regretting his solo pub crawl, John had tended patients with waning patience. Tuesday couldn't come quickly enough, what with Sherlock coming and going like a madman all Monday night, and it had seemed like it would be alright until the row in the cab. John was –at this point- sick of Sherlock's incessant badgering, and his constant energy was both irritating and exhausting.
And it goes without saying that meeting Moriarty hadn't exactly relaxed him.
And now, when John had pulled himself together again and up to Scotland Yard to help release him, the prick was even worse than ever! With the checkup looming the next night, John was not in the mood to deal with his peculiar flatmate. He took his time in returning to Baker Street, surprised to find it empty, but did has he had planned. Soon, he had a pot of freshly-brewed tea and something to nibble at on a good tray, and he was snug in his bed.
He intended to enjoy the whole lot of it, no matter what cases came up, and turn in once it was done. And nothing Sherlock did was going to stop him.
Sherlock stalked back into Baker Street a little after midnight, sopping wet from a sudden typhoon-like downpour an hour ago, and shucked his things without restraint.
John had disappeared by the time the crowd had cleared, no trace of him left after the mad stampede of tourists and teens, so Baker Street was empty enough for him to be indecent.
"That took longer than I thought!" Called the blogger from the other room, making him jump. "What took you so long?"
"JOHN?!" Sherlock glanced around, perplexed, and quickly praised himself for not having totally disrobed as of yet. He bent, scooping his drenched coat and soaked shirt off the floor, and kicked his feet free of their prisons. He shuffled into the bathroom. "HOW DID YOU GET HERE SO FAST?"
"Spoilers!" John's smugness pervaded his tone. "And don't yell; I can hear you just fine without waking poor Mrs. Hudson!"
"John..." Sherlock simmered quietly at John's flippancy and threw on his red silk robe, tying it tightly at his waist. He stalked across the apartment, feeling his mouth tighten into a grim scowl, and he threw open John's bedroom door without warning. In his bed, cozy and dry, the blogger jumped and lost his page in the ratty paperback he was reading; taking in the teapot, the tray, and the cozy atmosphere, Sherlock lost his patience.
"Sherlock, why are you-" "I am soaked from looking for you!" He growled as his voice dropped into a menacingly-low bass. He saw John stiffen, exhibiting the key traits of a prey animal, and his nostrils flared as he prepped for another lecture. "This is absolutely ridiculous! You refuse to accompany me on recent cases for which your input is needed and sit here like an old bag drinking tea while I scour half of London looking for you! Must you be so difficult?!"
John face crumpled from shock to outrage. "Sherlock, you are one to talk about being difficult! I have had it up to here with you!"
"ME!?" Sherlock knocked the book out of John's reach when he stretched out for it and the usually peaceful doctor's eyes burned with a soldier's fire. "YOU MUST BE JOKING!"
"Sherlock," John murmured quietly, straightening up with an unreadable expression that only made him angrier. "I don't want to fight with you."
"That is unfortunate." Sherlock snarled, grabbing the front of John's sleep shirt fiercely.
"Sherlock..." John's jaw tightened as he fought to speak calmly. "If you're taking a piss with me, I swear-" "If we are making promises, Doctor Watson, I swear that I am not joking, and that I-"
Just as quickly as Sherlock had interrupted John, the ex-soldier wound up and cracked him in the jaw with dizzying force. The detective fell back, releasing John, and the doctor was on him in a minute to both dodge the reply and send him to his knees with a deft blow to his solar plexus. As he fell, Sherlock scrabbled for a handhold and, failing, tore down the bedroom shelf and all that was on it in a thunderous crash.
John followed him through the doorway, not minding the broken glass or his bare feet as he gripped Sherlock by the collar of his robe and brought their faces close.
"Look, mate," He said neutrally, "I'm not going to fight with you. You are obviously drunk, or high, or... something. The Sherlock Holmes I moved in with was not some barmy tosser who lost it after a little rain!" Letting go of Sherlock's robe, John straightened up and looked down at him pityingly. "What's going on, Sherlock? The weekend tinkering, the ins and outs on Monday night... is something going on? If I can help, I will, but you're running me ragged, mate. I need a break."
"A break?" Sherlock chuckled dryly, touching a hand to the swelling and pain that was his right cheek. He got his breath back with a bit of difficulty, hearing Mrs. Hudson on the stairs, and he looked up at John's sincere expression with an expression that darkened like the sky before a thunderstorm. "A break..."
As the door to the flat flew open and Mrs. Hudson staggered in wearing her dressing gown and cap, Sherlock dove at John and his fist met the doctor's nose with a solid crunch of snapping cartilage. Blood spilled down over John's front and, eyes blazing, the two of them fought viciously until Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson came in to rip them apart. It took all three of them too and, watching his flatmate spit and fight against the Detective Inspector and the policewoman, John resolved silently that word of his meeting and dealings with Moriarty were never going to reach Sherlock from his lips.
He relaxed under Anderson's hand, listening to the officer's praise for his fighting and the critique of his many injuries and bruises with a bland attentiveness. He responded when necessary, falling into an almost sullen silence, and soon the five of them were on their way to the hospital to make sure that John's feet and Sherlock's palms weren't a risk. He was tempted to call it off for him –he could stitch it himself, to be honest- and let Sherlock stay in their company for another night, but he couldn't bring himself to.
He was too tired suddenly, so he sat complacently and let the other doctors handle this. He answered questions he had memorized, and let them do the work for him, and soon he was back in bed with a mess all over his floor and a seething Sherlock Holmes skulking around the flat, his silence speaking more words than his tongue could ever convey.