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07 January 2014 @ 02:06 pm
[oneshot] With Sherlock  

With Sherlock

Author: Mizuno-Hikaru

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x John Watson

Warning: unbetaed. Pardon my horrible grammar mistakes.

Living with Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the easiest thing to do.

Despite of the great reputation he got, the genius detective was somehow lacking empathy—or any simple social manner. For John Watson’s personal opinion, his otter-like roommate was rather rude.

“Rude?” Sherlock raised one of his eyebrows, lips formed a thin line of disbelief, “Elaborate that for me.”

“Sherlock,” John slowed his intonation, sighed as he highlighted every syllables he could, “…you have no interest for itty bitty chit-chat. You simply blurted what’ve you thinking, even though it insulted your partner of conversation. You put your logical method above anything else, while you don’t considering the physiological effect. Do you want me to start with a list?”

“Not really—“

“It was the worst when you got bored,” John crossed his arms, leaned on the armchair of the couch, “You will do unbelievable things. Went to the tube with a harpoon, bathed in blood… or shot our walls—“ A pause. “And you keep bizarre things on our refrigerator, really”

“I’ve warned you from the very beginning…”

“Yeah,” John nodded, “You did. I know. I could cope with you, all these times. I never got a boring moment with you, and I enjoyed—“ He approached the curly haired male, run his fingers on the raven coloured locks, “—every single moment of it.”

Both of them smiled. The fire on the fireplace crackled, filled the room with liquid gold silhouette; danced as the chopped wood turned black into a mix of charcoal and ashes.

Sherlock raised his face, stared at John’s, and slowly touched the latter’s back. Pulled the shorter male onto him, Sherlock let John sat on his lap, the solid weight of his partner felt right on him. John sighed, hugged his roommate and let Sherlock wrapped his arms around him. It felt nice, and warm, and safe. Like a home, like a place to return to, like a sanctuary, like the very right place to be.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice turned into a whisper, “I really love…living here with you.”

Another pause. Sherlock buried his face on John’s embrace, the woolen material felt soft and a lil bit itchy, smelled like peppermint and sandalwood. The blonde haired male’s heartbeats were steady and strong, went thump thump thump like accelerated drums.

Both of them maintained the awkward position—Sherlock tightened his embrace and John let him, the silence between them felt kinda heavy. “You know…” Another whisper, “You need to eat more. Even during cases. What if you collapse? Or sick? And you need to reduce those nicotine patches, they weren’t healthy, you know Sherlock…”


“Sleep well. You often missed your time to rest, immersed in cases…” John sighed, pressed his cheek on top of Sherlock’s head. The musky scent mixed with shampoo and the taste of sun. “Just… live well.”

“I know…” Sherlock replied, their fingers intertwined, and Sherlock pulled John even closer. John’s blue eyes stared straight onto Sherlock’s bluish-grey orbs. They were beautiful, turned their colour depends on the light; sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes the mix between—with the mysterious yellow tints. Their lips met, a bit wet and sloppy, yet familiar—both of them tasted each other and the sullen feelings lingered.

“Sherlock, Sherlock…” John keep calling the latter’s name, repeated it like a mantra. The warmth felt inviting under his palm, reassured the blonde that the man in front of him was real and alive, “I asked for one miracle…”

“To be not dead, for you,” Sherlock answered, “Yeah, you’ve said it before John. Thousands of times. That you stood there in front of my tomb, pleading me to come back—I knew. I was there, beyond the trees.”

“And now, you’re back…”

But it was too late.

“I’m sorry John…”

“Don’t be sorry—“ John Watson’s voice went rasp, “Please, don’t. Just… be happy, live on your life. Rest well… Live—go on…”

Even without me.

“We’ll still meet.”

“Yeah, not always…but yeah. We will, Sherlock. We will…”

Traced the latter’s palm, Sherlock caressed John’s fingers using his own. Thumbs, point finger, middle finger, the ring finger, the pinky… Traced all of the lines on the older male’s palm, the main three lines carved into the usual, ordinary pattern. He was no palm reader, of course, being scientific and all—but he loves to touch the latter’s hand like this.

“It’s an honour to share a flat with you, Sherlock,” John murmured, “It’s been a pleasure.”

“But you’re still leaving…”

“The wedding is tomorrow,” John’s expression went grim, “And here we are, the groom and the best man, sharing the bachelor night like two stupid fools, being sentimental and all.”

“Tomorrow…” Sherlock cupped John’s cheeks, pulled him into another deep kiss, “is still a few hours away.”

A few hours away.

And every single minutes of it, you’re still mine.

…until tomorrow.