The Inevitable (The Untrue) - 8/8
VIII.
John arrives home from the home from the hospital long after midnight. He was supposed to be through with his shift by eight, but a car crash near Trafalgar Square brought in eight patients, and they all needed immediate care. John stayed because it was his job, and because there was nothing else he could be doing that would matter as much.
Now, though, walking up the stairs to his flat is almost too much. He doubts he’ll make it to his bed. Collapsing on the couch sounds like a brilliant, and very welcome, prospect. He’s already planning it when he pushes his key into the lock - and finds it won’t turn.
He swallows. Why would the door be unlocked? He’s sure he locked it before he left. It’s been open for almost two days, if he didn’t lock it. He presses it open carefully, and his ears perk up at the sound of someone in the kitchen.
Probably our room, John notes. What would any burglar want from the kitchen?
He thinks about continuing up the stairs to his old room, where he still stores his gun (just in case Lestrade ever came round to do a “drugs bust” when Sherlock was alive. The last thing they needed was possession of an illegal firearm on top of it.). Instead, he very carefully slides his umbrella out of the stand by the door and closes the door behind him.
A voice speaks, and John’s heart leaps to his throat. No one answers though. He moves carefully toward the sound, steps firmly, fully into the light pouring out from the kitchen, and goes very still.
Sherlock searches the cabinet, muttering in outrage to himself about the lack of chemistry equipment and paraphernalia from his experimenting days. He spins on John suddenly, pressing his hands to his hips, his eyebrows drawn together.
“John, I know we’ve discussed this; you’re not to touch my experiments. How could you clear them away without even consulting me? And if you were going to bin them, why wouldn’t you write down the observations first? Honestly. Now I have to begin again completely, and you’ve stored none of my equipment where I need it.”
John stares at him, trying to think of how he could possibly respond to this. Sherlock - Sherlock - is standing in his kitchen, very much alive, and beautiful, and his hair is so short, and his cheekbones are so sharp, and he is so thin, and he’s sure Mrs. Hudson will take care of that right off, and he’s looking at John like he’s waiting for him to say something and - oh, that’s right.
“It’s not my fault your experiments went off,” he snaps back, leaning the umbrella against the door frame. “Next time you decide to disappear for three years, you could leave instructions for them. I wouldn’t even know what I was looking for.”
“Observe, John! Have you learned nothing?” Sherlock scolds. “All details are important!”
John steps slowly toward him, afraid that if he moves too quickly, this mirage will disappear. When he’s close enough, he reaches out, curls his fingers into Sherlock’s shirt and uses it to reel himself in the rest of the way. Oh, god. He presses his temple to Sherlock’s jaw for a long moment, then lifts his head to kiss the corner of his mouth.
Sherlock smiles, straightens the collar of John’s shirt. “No one has ever told you before that you look good in blue, have they? You should wear it all the time. Also, I hope this position at the hospital won’t be too time-consuming. I need you to be available.”
“Oy, I don’t exist to be at your disposal.”
“Don’t you though?”
John can only smile.
Fin.
John arrives home from the home from the hospital long after midnight. He was supposed to be through with his shift by eight, but a car crash near Trafalgar Square brought in eight patients, and they all needed immediate care. John stayed because it was his job, and because there was nothing else he could be doing that would matter as much.
Now, though, walking up the stairs to his flat is almost too much. He doubts he’ll make it to his bed. Collapsing on the couch sounds like a brilliant, and very welcome, prospect. He’s already planning it when he pushes his key into the lock - and finds it won’t turn.
He swallows. Why would the door be unlocked? He’s sure he locked it before he left. It’s been open for almost two days, if he didn’t lock it. He presses it open carefully, and his ears perk up at the sound of someone in the kitchen.
Probably our room, John notes. What would any burglar want from the kitchen?
He thinks about continuing up the stairs to his old room, where he still stores his gun (just in case Lestrade ever came round to do a “drugs bust” when Sherlock was alive. The last thing they needed was possession of an illegal firearm on top of it.). Instead, he very carefully slides his umbrella out of the stand by the door and closes the door behind him.
A voice speaks, and John’s heart leaps to his throat. No one answers though. He moves carefully toward the sound, steps firmly, fully into the light pouring out from the kitchen, and goes very still.
Sherlock searches the cabinet, muttering in outrage to himself about the lack of chemistry equipment and paraphernalia from his experimenting days. He spins on John suddenly, pressing his hands to his hips, his eyebrows drawn together.
“John, I know we’ve discussed this; you’re not to touch my experiments. How could you clear them away without even consulting me? And if you were going to bin them, why wouldn’t you write down the observations first? Honestly. Now I have to begin again completely, and you’ve stored none of my equipment where I need it.”
John stares at him, trying to think of how he could possibly respond to this. Sherlock - Sherlock - is standing in his kitchen, very much alive, and beautiful, and his hair is so short, and his cheekbones are so sharp, and he is so thin, and he’s sure Mrs. Hudson will take care of that right off, and he’s looking at John like he’s waiting for him to say something and - oh, that’s right.
“It’s not my fault your experiments went off,” he snaps back, leaning the umbrella against the door frame. “Next time you decide to disappear for three years, you could leave instructions for them. I wouldn’t even know what I was looking for.”
“Observe, John! Have you learned nothing?” Sherlock scolds. “All details are important!”
John steps slowly toward him, afraid that if he moves too quickly, this mirage will disappear. When he’s close enough, he reaches out, curls his fingers into Sherlock’s shirt and uses it to reel himself in the rest of the way. Oh, god. He presses his temple to Sherlock’s jaw for a long moment, then lifts his head to kiss the corner of his mouth.
Sherlock smiles, straightens the collar of John’s shirt. “No one has ever told you before that you look good in blue, have they? You should wear it all the time. Also, I hope this position at the hospital won’t be too time-consuming. I need you to be available.”
“Oy, I don’t exist to be at your disposal.”
“Don’t you though?”
John can only smile.
Fin.