#grumpy john

           You stretch up to reach the cabinet, grabbing three mugs – and being sure to grab Sherlock’s favorite one. You set them down on the counter, shutting the cabinet door. The kettle still looks like it has a while, so you turn to go back to the couch, still feeling tired, only to be met with Sherlock Holmes.

           Sherlock stares at you with wide eyes, obviously not expecting you to be awake and standing. But you smile softly, glad to see him. You remember him giving you his coat as a pillow in the backseat of Lestrade’s car and the kind look in his eyes as he carried you inside Lestrade’s office. Even when you were high out of your mind and tearing yourself up inside, he still showed you kindness. That’s something, especially coming from Sherlock.

           “Good morning,” he finally says.

           “Morning,” you murmur. “Thank you for last night. Giving me your coat and all.”

           “You’re welcome…” He trails away, stepping past you and into the kitchen. He stares at the mugs and then looks back to you. “I was going to make tea.”

           “And you still can,” you chuckle. “I’m going back to sleep.”

           Sherlock nods as you walk away, watching as you bypass John’s chair to curl up in Sherlock’s instead, setting his violin down on the floor. His eyebrows raise in surprise, not at all expecting you to do that. You’ve always gone to John’s chair. It’s your favorite – or was.

           You only get a few moments of extra sleep though before John comes up the stairs. You have less than two seconds to prepare yourself before he’s shaking your shoulder and ordering you to sit up.

           You sigh, doing as you’re told, not wanting to anger him more when he’s probably still pissed at you. But you would like it if he would be gentler with you.

           Without warning, John shines a light in both your eyes, causing you to curse as a headache splits your skull.

           “For fuck’s sake,” you groan, covering your eyes after he’s done with whatever the hell that was for. “That was rude.”

           “Here,” John says, not acknowledging your pain. You open your eyes to see him holding some aspirin and a glass of water. You gladly take it from him, feeling a little strange as he watches you take the pills and down half the water.

           “Thank you.”

           “Get dressed. Mary and I are testing cake for the wedding today.”

           You furrow your eyebrows. “Why do I need to come with you?”

           “Because I’m not leaving you alone here.”

           You glance into the kitchen to see Sherlock quietly pouring tea, his shoulders tensing underneath his robe.

           “I’m an adult, John.”

           He clenches his jaw. “Get dressed. I’m not asking again.”

           You nearly roll your eyes, knowing this is a losing battle. “Can I at least have tea first?”

           “Fine,” he compromises. “I’m going to get Mary. Be ready by the time I get back.”

           “You got it, boss,” you grumble as he turns on his heel and leaves the flat.

           Well. Today is going to be grand.

           Maybe not as bad as that, though. Mary will be there, and you’re almost positive she will provide some relief. Hopefully, at least. You don’t think you’ll be able to survive a full day of John’s grumpiness, hostility, and all-around piss-poor attitude.

           He has a right to be angry, sure, but you and him haven’t even had a conversation about it yet. So he’s not even technically sure of what he’s mad at you for.

           You pinch the bridge of your nose as you bring your legs up underneath you, wrapping Sherlock’s coat around you tightly. This is exactly why you didn’t tell John. You knew this was how he’d act.

           “Y/N.”

           You open your eyes, seeing Sherlock standing there with an outstretched hand holding a mug of steaming tea. “Thanks,” you breathe, taking the tea from him. And instead of telling you to move, Sherlock takes a seat in John’s chair. “How long do you think John will be angry with me?” You ask, trying to lighten the air.

           “Probably less than how long he’ll be angry with me.”

           You frown, setting your cup down on your leg. “I’m sorry he’s angry with you.”

           Sherlock merely shrugs, blowing on his tea. “It’s not your fault.” He pauses. “I should have went with you.”

           “It’s not your fault that you didn’t,” you reply. “If I wanted you to go with me, I would’ve broken you out of your mind palace.”

           “You telling me you were leaving should have broken me out of my mind palace.”

           “It’s not your fault, Sherlock Holmes. Don’t blame yourself for this.”

           “You were in danger,” he mutters. “I should have gone with you.”

           “It’s not your fault.”

           “Why do you keep saying that?”

           “Because it’s true,” you reply simply. “Because I am not your responsibility.”

           “John told me to look out for you.”

           “And your brother told me to look out for you.”

           He glares at you.

           “Do you see what I mean? And you have looked out for me, by the way. If I remember correctly, you are the one who locked my window and made me confront what I was doing. I might be in worse shape if you hadn’t waited up for me that night.”

           He smirks at the memory, causing you to smile. You knew he enjoyed locking you out. He so enjoyed playing that little game with you.

           You finish your tea rather quickly, sighing when you remember what John said. He’ll be back any minute, you’re sure. And the last thing you need is him yelling up the stairs for you only to find you still in your old clothes.

           Sherlock stands with you, offering to take your mug back to the kitchen. You let him, frowning when he immediately does that without even saying a word.

           “I’ll see you later tonight,” you say, feeling like you’re saying it to an empty room.

           “Alright.”

           You nod your head, guessing that’s as much of a response as you’re ever going to get from him right now as you make your way down to your flat.

~~~

John knocks on the door to your flat rather loudly ten minutes later. You groan as you slip on your shoes, answering the door to a still-grumpy John. He looks less than pleased.

           “Are you ready?” He pauses, noticing you’re still wearing Sherlock’s coat, and he frowns. “Really?”

           “Would you like me to change?” You ask sweetly, hoping to convey the message to him that if you have to change, you will take your sweet time. And by sweet time, you mean you won’t come back out. Until tomorrow.

           “No. Come on.”

           “That’s what I thought,” you mutter, glad he can’t hear you because he’s already out to hail a cab. You lock your door behind you, glancing up the stairs longingly before deciding to get on outside, not wanting John to have to call for you more than once.

           You meet Mary on the sidewalk, accepting a hug from her immediately. Her smiling face is definitely something you needed to see, and the warmth from her arms is definitely something you needed to feel.

           “You look pale, dear,” she worries, holding your face. “Have you eaten?”

           “I’ve had tea,” you admit, not wanting to put on a sob story for her, but you also know better than to lie to Mary Morstan.

           “John, we’re getting something to eat first.”

           “We’re about to eat cake,” he protests as a taxi pulls up on the curb.

           He opens the door, gesturing for you to get in, so you do, ducking your head to avoid looking him in the eye. And before Mary slides into the seat next to you, you hear her tell him firmly that they are stopping to get you some real food before trying cake – and that the decision is final whether he likes it or not.

           You almost snicker, but you know better when John’s in earshot.

           Mary sits next to you, squeezing your arm gently. The woman treats everything like an adventure, and you’re not complaining.

           “Is that Sherlock’s coat?” She asks out nowhere, slapping John’s arm when he lets out a scoff.

           “Yeah, it is,” you reply quietly, not wanting to get John fired up again, but Mary could care less about that, apparently. And you have felt pretty giddy about wearing it.

           “How is that going?”

           “Mary!” You hiss, feeling your cheeks reddening. “We’re friends.”

           She hums, raising her eyebrows. “Alright.”

           “You are the worst.”

           “And you love me for it.”

           “Of course I do.”

           She grins, nodding for you to look at John who is trying hard to hold back a smile after frowning at the mention of his best friend. He can try all he wants to stay angry, but you know he loves to see you and Mary getting along so well.

           You really hope John won’t stay mad at Sherlock forever. They are best friends, after all. They were best friends first, so you can only hope that he’ll get over this.

~~~

Cake testing is about as eventful as one can hope. But you are grateful for it because at least for that hour and a half, it felt like last night didn’t happen at all.

           John was too preoccupied with talking about the wedding and testing cake samples and learning what flavors you like and dislike and learning of your food allergies that he forgot to be angry with you. Or he forgot to show it, at least.

           He laughed. For the first time today, he actually laughed.

           Of course, that is all taken away as soon as you hail a cab to return to Baker Street.

           At first, John completely protests the idea of letting you stay on Baker Street “alone,” even though you point out once again that you aren’t alone, this time citing Ms. Hudson just down the hall. Thankfully, Mary talks more sense into John and defends you in being an adult, after all. He doesn’t like the idea, but after Mary mentions (as a last resort) that she needs to do some Christmas shopping for you, he lets you go back to Baker Street alone.

           As long as you promise to text him when you arrive.

           And you do, not feeling like getting on John’s bad side once more. He lets you leave after giving you a bone-crushing hug, and telling you that the two of you will be having a conversation about everything tomorrow when he’s off from work.

           It’s in that moment that he lets his worry show instead of his anger, and you’re grateful for it. You know he’s angry with you. That is a given. But you really needed a hug from him.

           You leave Mary with a hug, thanking her for being the mediator in today’s adventure, and she thanks you for offering a third opinion on cake choices for the wedding.

           After what seems like forever of standing on the sidewalk, you’re finally in a cab heading back to Baker Street.

~~~

The sight you see when you walk up to 221B is not one that you can say you were expecting – and Sherlock Holmes is endlessly doing the unexpected.

           It started when your shoe kicked an empty carton of cigarettes across the floor. You stare down at it with wide eyes, your mind reeling. Sherlock had told you about this – even John had – but you swore he was doing better. He even told you to your face that he was doing better.

           Slowly, you bend down and pick it up, hoping there wasn’t many left in here, hoping it was his secret stash that John had said he depleted. Just hoping he didn’t smoke an entire bloody pack while you were gone.

           The ash tray on the table has half a cigarette in it, some of the smoke still floating up into the air. Angrily, you stub the rest of it out, stopping the smoke.

           You hear footsteps behind you, causing you to turn around and meet Sherlock’s stunned face. He’s still in his robe and looks like he didn’t even shower yet today.

“Sherlock Holmes, have you been smoking?”

He furrows his eyebrows. “Obviously.”

“Do you think this is a fucking joke?” You nearly scream, holding up the empty carton. “I’m gone for less than four hours and you smoke an entire pack.”

“It was only half full.”

“Oh, because that makes it so much better.”

“It does, actually.”

“These things will kill you!” You hurl the empty carton at him, feeling satisfied when it bounces off his chest. “You idiot. You bloody idiot.”

“I’m not your responsibility, Y/N,” he chides, picking up the empty carton and tossing it in the trash can.

“Do not use my words on me right now.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Stop talking.”

Sherlock obeys, shifting his weight on his feet under your gaze. It’s then that you notice his eyes, how bloodshot they are and how splotchy his face looks.

“What else have you done?”

He narrows his eyes. “I’m…sorry?”

“What else have you done, Sherlock.”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

“What, so I’m supposed to just believe that your eyes are red and your face is splotchy because you’ve been crying for three hours, is that it?”

You aren’t expecting for your outburst to be true. But when his eyes fall to the floor instead of looking at you, you frown, closing your eyes to take in a deep breath.

“Sherlock…”

“I know I am a machine,” he says slowly. “But I should have gone with you. I should have protected you last night.”

Your heart breaks as he continues.

“I know John is angry with me and he has every right to be, but please. Don’t be angry with me too.”

Without letting another thought run through your head, you launch yourself into his arms, burying your face in his neck. He smells of cigarette smoke and sweat, but right now you couldn’t care less. And when he gains his senses enough to wrap his arms around you, there’s nothing you wanted more.

“I’m not mad at you, you big idiot,” you mutter into his neck. “I just wish you wouldn’t smoke cigarettes to get me to say that,” you chuckle, glad to hear a low rumble in his chest as he laughs with you. “Seriously, Sherlock,” you pause, pushing back from the hug and holding his face in your hands. “Don’t do this anymore, okay?”

“Okay.” He nods. “Don’t go after Gidon on your own anymore.”

“I won’t,” you shake your head. “I promise.”

The silence that comes after leaves the two of you staring into the other’s eyes and realizing just how close your faces are, your noses practically touching. You feel your chest erupt into butterflies when his eyes glance from your eyes to your lips in the most obvious way, quickly returning to your eyes with a guilty look like you’ve caught him in the middle of a crime.

The last time the both of you were this close, John interrupted. And Sherlock sulked. He still remembers the moment. And because he doesn’t want to be interrupted again, he takes matters into his own hands.

He acts entirely on instincts, but he cups your face, pulling you into him. You stumble for a moment, your knees knocking into each other’s, your faces somehow still impossibly close but lips not yet touching. You’ve imagined this moment. You’ve dreamt about it. But you didn’t think you’d ever be standing here, hands pressed against his chest as one of his arms wraps around your waist, keeping you against him.

And you stall. Once again.

“Sherlock Holmes, if you don’t kiss me, I’m going to yell at you again.”

He smirks. “We don’t want that, do we?”

You give him a look, which is infinitely more intimate because your faces are so close.

Finally, he closes the gap, effectively silencing you no longer with his words but instead with his lips. Instead in the way you’ve wanted him to since the day you met him, even if it’s taken you this long to admit that.

You don’t know what it is, but you keep expecting to be interrupted. It’s not until Sherlock pauses, inhaling deeply and pulling you back in, coaxing your mouth open for him. You whimper, wrapping your arms around his neck.

He pulls back, mistaking the noise for something else. “Not good?”

You laugh, resting your forehead on his chest for a moment to gain back your senses. “Good. Very good.” You pause, looking up at him. “You taste like cigarettes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Did Sherlock Holmes just apologize?”

He gives you a look, like he’ll take it back if you keep teasing him, so you just smile.

“Now what?”

“I don’t know actually.”

“How about…you go brush your teeth and we can…” You pause, glancing around the room. “We can clean up this mess.” Papers are everywhere, books knocked off of shelves, his violin is on the floor. He made a mess.

“Where’s John?” He asks, because he was sure John wouldn’t let you come here by yourself – or stay.

“Christmas shopping with Mary,” you explain, smoothing your hands over Sherlock’s robe. “She’s keeping him occupied so he would give me some space. So he can cool off.”

“Oh. Alright.”

“I’m going to talk to him tomorrow,” you murmur. “He can’t stay angry with you forever.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“Why?”

“You’d lose.”

“Sherlock,” you scold. “Go…take a shower. I’ll make you some tea.”

He gives you a fleeting look, but eventually obeys, sulking off to take a shower while you put the kettle on to boil.

You dumb the entire ashtray into the trashcan, hoping it never returns. You pick up the stacks of paper, setting them down on the table for him to deal with later. You have no idea what half of them are, but you’re sure they must have something to do with a case.

You place his violin on his chair, being sure to place the bow with in – a silent and discreet way of asking him to play for you. You pick up a few sheets of music, placing them back on their stand. It’s then that you see one in particular with your name scrawled across the top in messy cursive. The date is from today, something he must’ve written while you were out. Just by looking at the notes, you see it’s different from what he plays to lull you to sleep. You’ll have to ask him to play this one for you.

By the time you have finished tidying up the room, the kettle has boiled and Sherlock has taken over making tea for you. Happily, you settle down on the couch, smiling softly when Sherlock walks in to hand you your cup of tea.

Surprisingly – because you really expected him to sit in his chair – he sits next to you on the couch.

He isn’t sure what he’s doing, or what his body is doing for that matter. He really had considered sitting in his chair, or playing his violin by the window, but his legs moved him toward the couch because for some strange reason, all he wanted to do was sit next to you.

You’re lost in thought, trying to hold onto reality because kissing Sherlock still feels like a bit of a dream. He notices this, and does the only thing he can think of that he knows you like.

He, without saying a word, smooths his hand along your arm until he reaches your hand, twisting your wrist gently to lace your fingers together. He watches in satisfaction as he sees you smile, glancing up at him. He returns the gesture, startling a little when you shift around.