#lisbeth-kk

***

Sherlock wonders how long he’s been trapped. He can’t even recall why he entered in the first place. Was it to search for something, or was it to escape his own living room? He never leaves - at least unnecessarily - to his Mind Palace if John is present, but perhaps he went out on a date again. If Sherlock isn't playing the violin or performing an experiment to stave off the tedium of John's absence, he tends to walk through this place for a while. The fact that he can’t remember the reason for coming here, is unsettling.

Mycroft has of course taught him everything about the comings and goings, but Sherlock can’t remember if he ever mentioned how to escape his own head if he got stuck. Most likely, it didn’t occur to his brother that it was an option. Mycroft has always had better control of his emotions than Sherlock. He will obviously deny this to his dying day, but inside his mind he can afford to be gracious.

“Are you still here? I’m waiting for you, you know. There’s tea and biscuits.”

John has returned, but he disappears faster than Sherlock can respond.

***

At the end of the corridor is a green sign, which Sherlock supposes is the one he’s been searching for, but when he walks toward it, the sign transforms into a painting. 

The Reichenbach Falls.

It had been a gift from… a client? Or was it some politician? An insignificant detail at this point, obviously. 

The painting gives him the shills; an expression John would use. It is ominous and if he concentrates, he can hear the sound of the grand waterfall.

“John? Where are you?”

Why hasn’t he thought of calling out for the man earlier?

Sherlock contemplates that he might be drugged. Perhaps he isn’t –

“You called,” John says calmly, suddenly standing beside him.

“I did. Thank you for coming. I… I can’t…”

Sherlock is slightly embarrassed to admit that he’s adrift in his own head. 

“Lost, are you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers.

To his horror, he feels a burning sensation in his eyes.

A warm hand slides into his, and the words “come on” are uttered. 

Is John holding his hand? 

Sherlock looks down and sees that they are indeed holding hands. However, this is Mind Palace John, a fictional version of his friend, not the real one.

“Here we are,” John says softly.

They stand before a door which opens a crack. Scents of tea, gingernuts, leather, books, and dust invade Sherlock’s nostrils. There’s also the unmistakable and unique smell that belongs to the man who’s sitting in his chair sipping tea from his RAMC mug – John. The real John. His John.

***

“You’re back,” John says with evident relief and warmth.

Sherlock blinks and nods; his voice seems to be out of order at the moment.

“Come sit. There’s tea and your favourite biscuits,” John coaxes.

Sherlock stands from the sofa and walks over to his chair.

“Did you finish cataloguing?” John asks.

The look on his face is different somehow. More open, fond, and… something else Sherlock is unable to deduce.

Tea first, then – 

“You don’t remember, do you?”

John’s voice is sad all of a sudden.

“What?”

“Why you retreated to your Mind Palace,” John explains.

His voice is still – 

“Oh!”

Images of John cupping his face, kissing him softly on the lips, telling Sherlock that he… loves him.

“Oh,” he repeats.

“Right,” John sighs, “that didn’t go according to plan, I see.”

“John.”

His words elude him, and John seems unable to decipher what Sherlock is trying to convey. 

Action, Holmes.

He steps closer to John’s chair, pries the mug out of his hands, and curls up in John’s lap, mirroring the army doctor’s ministrations from earlier.

“I love you too,” Sherlock whispers after glorious minutes of kissing.

“Thank God! I thought I’d scared you away,” John exclaims, so relieved it nearly breaks Sherlock’s heart.

“Never!” Sherlock says emphatically.

“What took you so long, then?”

“I couldn’t find the correct sign, but then I called out for you. The other you, and he led me back.”

“Clever guy that one.”

“Most definitely no idiot.”

“High praise, love.”

Sherlock hides his blushing face in the crook of John’s neck and wonders if he will ever get used to being called ‘love’. 

He doesn’t say it out loud, but apparently John knows him too well.

“I will repeat it until you believe it, but I will never stop,” John assures him, and that is the best answer Sherlock has ever got in his life.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @raina-at

@meetinginsamarra @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @topsyturvy-turtely @peanitbear

@phoenix27884 @bs2sjh @brandiwein1982 @a-victorian-girl @221beloved

@ninasnakie @7-percent @lhrinhampstead @chriscalledmesweetie @missdeliadilisblog

@salmonsown @oetkb12 @jawnscoffee @gay-ass-bitch @acumberlockedgirl

@willamholmeswatson @whatnext2020 @mydogwatson @redmondcollege @thegildedbee

@ilovegayangels @elizabethhoodstyles @xmengal03 @riversong912 @givemesherbet-blog-blog

@couldbecannibal @2old2b-fangirl @dw91165 @jonkwatson @binx72

@macgyvershe @kholkate @fookincarrotsandpotatoes28 @talkativeanxiousturtle

@twoandahalfdimes @desi-yearning @johnlock-and-tea @llcsecret @jobooksncoffee

@original-welovethebeekeeper @readingwithgwen @gomielka @rosemelodyshah @221biandconfused

@ghostofnuggetspast @quiscustodiet @battledress @xjessicafaithx @peggyhh

@procrastinatorasfuck @writing-is-like-breathing @susanwhynow @debzwez @hot-on-my-watch

@solarmama-plantsareneat @the-cat-writer @futurewr1ter @copperplatebeech

Sherlock trails off and pinches the bridge of his nose. John’s stomach churns from worry and concern, and he makes his way over to where Sherlock is sitting. He kneels in front of him, grabbing his hands and kisses the knuckles.

“Tell me,” he urges softly.

Before Sherlock can open his mouth, a tiny voice is calling from the top of the stairs.

“Papa. They’re still here.”

John’s heart clenches when he hears his daughters tear-filled voice.

“I’ll go, Sherlock,” he says and kisses his forehead before making his way upstairs.

“Daddy!”

Rosie’s happiness at seeing him, fills John’s chest with love for this little girl who lights up his and Sherlock’s life on a daily basis.

“Rosebud, what’s the matter? You’re supposed to sleep at this hour.”

Her happy expression changes immediately. Tears stream down her flushed cheeks and her bottom lip quivers.

John scoops her up in his arms with more effort than last month. At the age of six, Rosamund Watson-Holmes is heavier than she looks.

“She inherited your sturdy bones.”

Sherlock’s voice in his mind is teasing, and John shakes his head to tend to the matter at hand.

When Rosie is safely back in her bed, she pleads for John to take a very good look under her bed and in her wardrobe.

“There are monsters,” she whispers, her eyes wide with both excitement and fear.

“Sweetheart, there are no such thing as monsters. Not for real.”

“I can hear and see them!” his stubborn daughter insists, so John searches the room, and comes up emptyhanded.

“Not a monster in sight!” he proclaims triumphantly.

Rosie looks sceptically at him, but her eyelids are getting heavier by the second, and when John wraps the duvet around her and hums the tunes of a lullaby he used to sing when she was smaller, she finally drifts off.

***

“So, what’s this nonsense about Molly?” John asks when he joins Sherlock on the sofa some minutes later.

Sherlock makes himself comfortable with his head in John’s lap, and John cards his fingers through the silky curls relishing the proximity.

“Molly picked Rosie up at school today since I had to help Gerard with closing the case. Apparently, our dear friend took it upon herself to educate our precious daughter by reading an illustrated edition of Frankenstein to her. And no, not a child-friendly copy.”

“I see. Molly’s sense of humour is a bit morbid, but so is ours.”

“Quite, but the difference is that we are able to censure the grisly bits where Rosie is concerned. Molly clearly has no boundaries in that department,” Sherlock huffs.

“True. Her awkwardness in social situations is legendary, which most likely has to do with her job. Being surrounded by dead people all day long – “

“Oh, hello, have we met? I deal with corpses just as regularly as Molly.”

“You do, my love, but there’s a difference. Who waits for her when she gets home? A cat. Have you ever heard of friends other than us?”

“I suppose not.”

“She’s lonely, Sherlock, and I won’t have any part in removing Ro from her life. It will destroy her, not to mention our daughter. She’s her godmother after all. I’ll have a talk with her, alright?”

“Fine,” Sherlock replies, though it’s clear that he needs more convincing, and John gets an idea.

***

“What are you doing?” Rosie asks Sherlock when she comes back from school the following day.

Sherlock is wearing his safety goggles and the thick rubber gloves he uses on his more toxic experiments. Said experiments are normally performed inside 221C these days, but this charade is all for Rosie’s benefit.

“I have created an anti-monster spray,” Sherlock declares and retrieves a spray bottle from the kitchen table.

Rosie’s eyes go wide with surprise, and when Sherlock has removed his gloves and goggles, she launches herself at him and hugs him tightly.

“You are the best!” she exclaims and kisses his cheek.

“It was actually Daddy’s idea,” Sherlock says softly and cradles her face with his right hand.

“Really? That’s brilliant!”

“Did someone call my name?” John asks from the doorway.

Sherlock snorts, but his fond smile doesn’t fool John.

***

That night, Rosie’s room gets a few well-placed sprays of the concoction Sherlock made, which smells like freshly cut grass and a hint of honey.

“Are they gone now?” Rosie asks before Sherlock turns out the light.

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock assures her.

“Most definitely,” John concurs. “No one can withstand Papa’s chemical magic. Sweet dreams, Rosebud.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at him, but he makes sure only John sees it.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @raina-at @meetinginsamarra @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @topsyturvy-turtely @peanitbear @phoenix27884 @bs2sjh @brandiwein1982 @a-victorian-girl @221beloved @ninasnakie @7-percent @lhrinchelsea @chriscalledmesweetie @missdeliadilisblog @salmonsown @oetkb12 @jawnscoffee @gay-ass-bitch @acumberlockedgirl @willamholmeswatson @whatnext2020 @mydogwatson @redmondcollege @thegildedbee @ilovegayangels @elizabethhoodstyles @xmengal03 @riversong912 @givemesherbet-blog-blog @couldbecannibal @2old2b-fangirl @dw91165 @jonkwatson @binx72 @macgyvershe @dragoonthegreatest @kholkate @fookincarrotsandpotatoes28 @talkativeanxiousturtle @twoandahalfdimes @desi-yearning @johnlock-and-tea @llcsecret @jobooksncoffee @original-welovethebeekeeper @readingwithgwen @gomielka @rosemelodyshah @221biandconfused @ghostofnuggetspast @quiscustodiet @battledress @xjessicafaithx @peggyhh @procrastinatorasfuck @writing-is-like-breathing @susanwhynow @debzwez @hot-on-my-watch @solarmama-plantsareneat

***

As a doctor, I never believed in the label Sherlock put on himself as a sociopath. Granted, I am no psychiatrist, but I know he has empathy for (a few) people around him. Mrs Hudson is a good example.

When I first met her, she opened her arms to Sherlock, and he willingly hugged her as if she was a beloved family member. There was nothing artificial about it. It was genuine affection.

That said, he drove her mad fairly often, but the few details they both let slip about her past, told me that she was used to all sorts of ruckus and shenanigans. She needed excitement in her life just as much as we did.

Angelo is another one of Sherlock’s devoted fans, and Sherlock tolerates the gushing, and the teddy bear hugs admirably. It’s easy to discern that he feels relaxed in the Italian’s company, and his mask of indifference vanishes completely. I find it utterly fascinating to watch.

***

I was much more prepared at the next crime scene some weeks later. 

Sherlock found nearly half a dozen clues in under one minute that had escaped the police. Both Anderson and Donovan mocked him and told everyone willing to listen that he made it all up to sound interesting. He didn’t bother to reply but kept the deductions coming. Luckily, Lestrade took notes and told the others to keep their mouth shut. They didn’t. 

I decided to intervene and took a step toward them both, crowding them so they had to step back a few feet.

“What the hell?” they asked in unison.

I lowered my voice, which I knew was far more effective than yelling. By this point, my subordinates from the army would’ve realised that the best way forward was to keep mum and agree to everything I told them. Of course, Anderson and Donovan weren’t that clever. They both perceived me as non-threatening, a lap dog. Big mistake.

“If you two continue to call Sherlock Freak and to ridicule his deductions, you’d better watch your backs. The ice under your feet is about to crack real soon if this doesn’t stop.”

“Are you threatening a police officer, Doctor Watson?” Donovan asked in her normal condescending tone.

“That’s right, Sergeant.”

“We will report you to the Superintendent!” Anderson exclaimed in a high-pitched voice which hurt my ears.

“Please do. There are enough witnesses who have heard you two harass Sherlock every chance you get,” I said calmly.

“As if he’s not offending us,” Sally scoffed.

“Oh, I know he does. But he’s not the one starting it, is he? He only replies accordingly. I assume you’d done the same if you were in his shoes. Most people would. You should be ashamed of yourselves, acting like teenagers instead of adults. Grow up, for goodness’ sake!”

“But I – “

“Shut up, Anderson! He is summoned by your commanding officer, and he solves every case you lot are unable to. Surely, that should be enough for you to keep your thoughts about him to yourselves. Without him, dozens of criminals would still walk the streets of London. Feel free to correct me if you think I’m wrong.”

And with that, I walked away from them and stood a little closer to Sherlock than normal. He didn’t seem to mind one bit; he was practically beaming at me.

“Dinner?” he asked after he’d lifted the police tape for me.

“Starving,” I replied.

“Is Angelo’s, okay?”

“God yes!”

***

Neither of us made a big thing out of it when our hands brushed, and our fingers entwined a few moments later; it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Apparently, Angelo discerned that something had changed between us, but he didn’t remark on it. He just fetched a candle, lit it, and went to get us a bottle of wine on the house.

To my astonishment and delight, we reached for the other’s hand once we had removed our coat and jacket. A voice in my head told me I was on thin ice starting a romantic relationship with the slightly mad world’s only consulting detective, but I told it, in no uncertain terms, to stop bothering me. I was fine. It was all fine. More than fine, in fact.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @raina-at

@meetinginsamarra @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @topsyturvy-turtely @peanitbear

@phoenix27884 @bs2sjh @brandiwein1982 @a-victorian-girl @221beloved

@ninasnakie @7-percent @lhrinhampstead @chriscalledmesweetie @missdeliadilisblog

@salmonsown @oetkb12 @jawnscoffee @gay-ass-bitch @acumberlockedgirl

@willamholmeswatson @whatnext2020 @mydogwatson @redmondcollege @thegildedbee

@ilovegayangels @elizabethhoodstyles @xmengal03 @riversong912

@couldbecannibal @2old2b-fangirl @dw91165 @jonkwatson @binx72

@macgyvershe @kholkate @fookincarrotsandpotatoes28 @talkativeanxiousturtle

@twoandahalfdimes @desi-yearning @johnlock-and-tea @llcsecret @jobooksncoffee

@original-welovethebeekeeper @readingwithgwen @gomielka @rosemelodyshah @221biandconfused

@ghostofnuggetspast @quiscustodiet @battledress @xjessicafaithx @peggyhh

@procrastinatorasfuck @writing-is-like-breathing @susanwhynow @debzwez @hot-on-my-watch

@solarmama-plantsareneat @the-cat-writer @futurewr1ter @copperplatebeech

***

“Have some more broccoli, John,” my mother urges him.

He swallows thickly and looks at the almost grey bits of broccoli he is offered. I decide to rescue my poor boyfriend.

“I will have some,” I say, grip the porcelain bowl with the atrocities, and feign loosening my grip. With a spectacular crack, the bowl hits the tiled floor, spreading the disgusting vegetables far and wide, while the bowl only gets slightly chapped.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes!” 

“Apologies,” I mutter and sweep up the gooey mass with some thick kitchen roll.

I catch John’s eye when I seat myself again, and I must look away quickly lest I fall into a fit of giggles. He is obviously aware that it was all a ploy to save him and his dignity.

***

“Thank you for that, love,” John whispers when we’re tucked up in bed later.

“I did contemplate to let you suffer through it, but I want you in her good graces. She already adores you for putting up with me, but I have no idea how she will react if she gets wind of your true opinions about her cooking.”

John shudders by the mere thought; Mummy can be quite intimidating.

“I guess this explains your aversion to eat properly,” he muses. “If your childhood was filled with overcooked – “

“It was, John. Only Mycroft and Father’s cunning ways kept me from starving. I didn’t have broccoli for ages until Angelo persuaded me to taste his after I had told him about my abominable experience with it. He was outright scandalised when I told him Mummy boiled them for twenty minutes.”

“It shouldn’t be done like that!”

John laughs when I imitate Angelo’s voice and accent, and he ends up gasping for air when I continue.

“She thinks the vegetables are alive and need to be annihilated?”

“Oh my God,” John wheezes, “he didn’t know how funny that was, did he?”

“Of course not, John. Food is a very serious business for Angelo. I thought you knew that.”

John sobers a bit and clears his voice awkwardly.

“Well, yeah, I do. Remember when I told him how my mum used to make Carbonara?”

It is my time to start laughing.

“Cream, onions, and garlic, John. What was she thinking?”

“Dunno, but I’ve never been more grateful for my mum’s passing than I was then. He was very gracious about it afterwards.”

“Obviously. Family is also extremely important to the Italians. You can dine there for free on your own now, you know. He felt awful when you told him your mother had been dead for more than a decade.”

“And why would I go to Angelo’s without you, my darling? To quote our Italian friend: “It shouldn’t be done!”

“Quite right,” I agree.

***

The next morning, John rises early to beat Mummy to the kitchen. 

“Heaven knows what she is capable of doing to the scrambled eggs, not to mention the bacon,” he whispers when I complain about him leaving the bed - and more importantly me - in favour of cooking.

All that aside, the breakfast is a great success if my mother’s gushing is any indicator.

“How do you manage to get the eggs so fluffy but not runny, dear?”

“It’s fairly easy. You just finish them when they’re still a bit wet. The temperature in the eggs will ensure that the mass keeps cooking for a few more moments after they’re taken out of the pan. And then they’re perfect.”

“I will try to remember that. Or perhaps you can remind me, darling?” Mummy addresses Father, who makes just as perfectly scrambled eggs as John does.

My Father agrees vigorously, but his expression is somewhat sceptical. Mummy’s ability to forget domestic chores in a heartbeat is after all legendary.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @raina-at

@meetinginsamarra @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @topsyturvy-turtely @peanitbear

@phoenix27884 @bs2sjh @brandiwein1982 @a-victorian-girl @221beloved

@ninasnakie @7-percent @lhrinhampstead @chriscalledmesweetie @missdeliadilisblog

@salmonsown @oetkb12 @jawnscoffee @gay-ass-bitch @acumberlockedgirl

@willamholmeswatson @whatnext2020 @mydogwatson @redmondcollege @thegildedbee

@ilovegayangels @elizabethhoodstyles @xmengal03 @riversong912 @givemesherbet-blog-blog

@couldbecannibal @2old2b-fangirl @dw91165 @jonkwatson @binx72

@macgyvershe @kholkate @fookincarrotsandpotatoes28 @talkativeanxiousturtle

@twoandahalfdimes @desi-yearning @johnlock-and-tea @llcsecret @jobooksncoffee

@original-welovethebeekeeper @readingwithgwen @gomielka @rosemelodyshah @221biandconfused

@ghostofnuggetspast @quiscustodiet @battledress @xjessicafaithx @peggyhh

@procrastinatorasfuck @writing-is-like-breathing @susanwhynow @debzwez @hot-on-my-watch

@solarmama-plantsareneat @the-cat-writer @futurewr1ter @copperplatebeech

***

For each passing week, it happens more frequently. And it doesn’t only apply to when I’m in the flat. Even at grim crime scenes I lose myself in thoughts of Sherlock. 

His agility – jumping over fences like an athlete. His large hands – gesturing elegantly. His voice – deep and resonant, speaking to my very core. His lips – lush and breath-taking. His hair – tousled or perfectly coiffed. His coat, his tight trousers, and shirts – making my knees weak.

“Out with it!”

I’m so startled, I nearly topple over. A large hand grabs my elbow gently, and Sherlock’s baritone scolds someone called George for being rude.

“Come on, John. We have a killer to catch!”

And without further ado, I’m running after my mad and gorgeous detective, while my phone buzzes in my jacket pocket.

Later - the killer is behind bars, and Sherlock delights in my adoring praise of his flawless deductions – I get a chance to check my mobile.

Are you ok? You lost yourself in your head again today. Like Sherlock does. What’s going on, John? Out with it!

“What does Gavin want?” Sherlock drawls from his chair.

“Nothing,” I say.

My blush is competing with the flames in the hearth, and I’m one hundred percent sure Sherlock knows I’m lying. He always does.

***

One of the many perks of Sherlock retreating to his Mind Palace, is that I get to observe him undisturbed. I only let my gaze linger when his eyes are shut. Granted, I’ve tried to wave my hand in front of his face when they are open; he doesn’t even blink, so I know it’s safe. Nevertheless, I don’t want to push my luck. 

What will he think if he saw me drinking him in like a man finally reaching an oasis in a dry desert? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

At the moment, Sherlock’s eyes are closed, so it’s safe to ogle his lithe frame, his steepled hands, his slightly parted lips. I let my eyes wander and linger wherever they desire. My tongue darts out to lick my chapped lips, and to my horror I realise that I’m drooling slightly. Christ.

When I have swiped the moist away, Sherlock’s eyes are open, meeting mine with an unexpected fondness. I find myself unable to look away. Maybe it’s time to stop this pretence and just dive into the unknown.

“So, this is what Gerald meant,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“His remark, and I quote: ‘Out with it.’”

Shit. He heard that. Obviously. His hearing is –

“John, don’t. Please.”

Please, what? I can’t comprehend what the familiar voice asks.

When something warm registers on my face, I open my eyes to find Sherlock kneeling in front of my chair, his delicate hands cupping my face.

“You need to stop doing that,” he whispers, “it feels like you’re leaving me.”

“I would never do that to you, Sherlock,” I say softly, and lift my own hands to caress his precious head.

“Good.”

We are both properly present when our lips meet for the first time. After all, this isn’t something any of us would want to miss.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @raina-at

@meetinginsamarra @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @topsyturvy-turtely @peanitbear

@phoenix27884 @bs2sjh @brandiwein1982 @a-victorian-girl @221beloved

@ninasnakie @7-percent @lhrinhampstead @chriscalledmesweetie @missdeliadilisblog

@salmonsown @oetkb12 @jawnscoffee @gay-ass-bitch @acumberlockedgirl

@willamholmeswatson @whatnext2020 @mydogwatson @redmondcollege @thegildedbee

@ilovegayangels @elizabethhoodstyles @xmengal03 @riversong912 @givemesherbet-blog-blog

@couldbecannibal @2old2b-fangirl @dw91165 @jonkwatson @binx72

@macgyvershe @kholkate @fookincarrotsandpotatoes28 @talkativeanxiousturtle

@twoandahalfdimes @desi-yearning @johnlock-and-tea @llcsecret @jobooksncoffee

@original-welovethebeekeeper @readingwithgwen @gomielka @rosemelodyshah @221biandconfused

@ghostofnuggetspast @quiscustodiet @battledress @xjessicafaithx @peggyhh

@procrastinatorasfuck @writing-is-like-breathing @susanwhynow @debzwez @hot-on-my-watch

@solarmama-plantsareneat @the-cat-writer @futurewr1ter @copperplatebeech

Finally, the list is finished. It’s rather pathetic when you cast one glance at it. Only four bullet points. He must choose one, though.

Gun (find an angle that won’t cause to much of a mess for those who has to clean up afterwards)

Bridge (check the tide table and which time there’ll be fewer people about)

Roof (ascertain if the door to Barts’ roof is still easy to pick)

Starvation (tell Ella that you won’t need her services beforehand)

John reads it over a few times, then scraps the last point on the list. He doesn’t know if he’s got the willpower to stop eating and drinking. 

Having checked the Thames’ tide table and which bridge is the best for his purpose, he finds it’s too much of a bother. Besides, he can’t be certain that an imminent death awaits him in the murky river. Knowing his luck, he’ll end up being rescued and even more invalided than he already is.

He knows the gun will do the trick, but he’s somehow reluctant to go with the obvious. It couldn’t harm to check that door first. No one would survive jumping off that tall building, and it might be easier than using the gun. It wouldn’t surprise him if his body betrayed him at the last moment; starting to shake the second he pulled the trigger, leaving him with a disfigured face instead of his brain mass scattered all around.

“Just one more day,” he mutters to himself. “I’ll check the door tomorrow and if I can get out on the roof, I’ll come back in the evening when the place is more deserted.”

***

As of late, John hasn’t paid much attention to the date. It doesn’t matter to him if it’s winter, or summer, March, or October, Wednesday, or Friday. But today – his last day – he makes an effort to register such a thing. His mobile screen tells him it’s January 29, 2010. Nothing remarkable about that. He can’t recall if he knows of anybody who’s born on this date. Upon further consideration, he doesn’t know a single soul born in January.

Since he has to encounter people other than pedestrians and shop employees, John takes a shower, shaves, and puts on his most decent checkered shirt. He glares daggers at his most hated object before he grabs the cane and limps out of his bedsit.

***

For a late January day, the weather is rather pleasant, so John decides to take a stroll through the park before making his way to Barts.

His heart sinks in his chest when someone calls his name, but he perks up when he recognises his former student friend, Mike Stamford. John has always liked him, and it feels like fate when the doctor discloses that he teaches at the hospital where they trained together, John’s destination.

“If you don’t have any plans for the day, I could show you around,” Mike proposes.

“I’d like that!” John exclaims a bit too enthusiastically.

Mike gives him an odd look, but doesn’t remark any further, just gestures a hand in the direction of his workplace.

***

John isn’t prepared for the nostalgia hitting him when he walks around at Mike’s side.

“A bit different from our days, I’d say,” John states when he looks around the modern lab.

“Agreed. The students aren’t though. They’re just as insufferable as we were,” Mike sighs, then grins.

“Speak for yourself,” John teases.

Mike’s phone pings with a text.

“Sorry, John, I have to go. Apparently, one of my students has…”

He shakes his head exasperatedly without finishing the sentence.

“You can see yourself out, can’t you?”

John nods and nods again, when Mike proposes they meet up for a pint the following week. He gives the well-meaning doctor a fake phone number, and they part ways.

Instead of taking the lift, John opens the door to the fire exit and the stairs. He doesn’t want to encounter anyone on his way to the top of the building.

To his surprise, he finds the door to the roof ajar.

“Fuck!” he mutters. “How typical.”

He turns to descend when a deep voice interrupts his steps.

“Don’t mind me. There is plenty of space up here. I won’t stand in your way.”

John freezes, unable to move. What the hell is going on?

Apparently, his legs move without his permission, and moments later he steps out on the roof. A tall man in a grand coat is leaning against the air vent, smoking a cigarette.

“Those will kill you, you know,” John remarks drily.

“Mm. A slower death than what you have in mind, though.”

A blush forms so quickly on John’s face, it makes his knees wobble.

“Easy, soldier,” the man rumbles and steadies John with a hand on his elbow.

The touch does a strange thing to John’s heart. It’s as if the chain that’s held it in a vice grip for ages is breaking. He feels light; almost carefree.

“Who are you?” he asks in wonder.

“Sherlock Holmes at your service, Doctor Watson.” 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @raina-at @meetinginsamarra @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @topsyturvy-turtely @peanitbear @phoenix27884 @bs2sjh @brandiwein1982 @a-victorian-girl @221beloved @ninasnakie @7-percent @lhrinchelsea @chriscalledmesweetie @missdeliadilisblog @salmonsown @oetkb12 @jawnscoffee @gay-ass-bitch @acumberlockedgirl @willamholmeswatson @whatnext2020 @mydogwatson @redmondcollege @thegildedbee @ilovegayangels @elizabethhoodstyles @xmengal03 @riversong912 @givemesherbet-blog-blog @couldbecannibal @2old2b-fangirl @dw91165 @jonkwatson @binx72 @macgyvershe @dragoonthegreatest @kholkate @fookincarrotsandpotatoes28 @talkativeanxiousturtle @twoandahalfdimes @desi-yearning @johnlock-and-tea @llcsecret @jobooksncoffee @original-welovethebeekeeper @readingwithgwen @gomielka @rosemelodyshah @221biandconfused @ghostofnuggetspast @quiscustodiet @battledress @xjessicafaithx @peggyhh @procrastinatorasfuck @writing-is-like-breathing @susanwhynow @debzwez @hot-on-my-watch @solarmama-plantsareneat

***

“Watch your step!”

“Are you talking to me?”

Sherlock is genuinely puzzled. Nobody ever tells him to mind where he’s going. He never stands still long enough.

“Yes, you moron!”

And then, Sherlock finds himself manhandled to the side by a strong but small man with blue eyes, blond hair, tanned skin, and an abandoned cane that lies some feet away on the platform.

“You were about to step right into – “

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

***

“Oil spill. Watch…”

Sherlock’s arms flail in an attempt to regain his balance when his shoe slips on the spilled oil, but just before he falls, strong arms catch him.

“I’ve got you,” John murmurs close to Sherlock’s ear.

His face flushes as if he’s suddenly been exposed to a roaring fire. Before he’s able to catalogue how his body responds to being held by John, his equilibrium is restored, and John retreats.

“Thank you,” Sherlock mutters.

He’s mortified to find himself in such an undignified situation, witnessed by his capable flatmate who more often than not, praises Sherlock’s agility. This calamity will certainly put a stop to that.

“Are you alright?” John asks quietly.

“Of course,” Sherlock says with false self-confidence.

***

“Fucking idiot!”

“Indeed.”

“Did he just try to walk straight through me?”

“So it seems.”

“I fear for humanity, Sherlock. Truly.”

Sherlock hums in agreement and relishes the fact that they are pressed tightly together in a packed carriage. The man who moments earlier tried to disembark the train, clearly needed glasses. Granted, John isn’t as tall as Sherlock, but he isn’t small as a child either. John had tried to prevent the collision from happening, but the train was simply too crowded to move more than an inch. Sherlock on his part, had been too preoccupied with his phone to stop the stupid man. However, he quite enjoys having John plastered to his side after the incident, so there’s that.

A jolt makes a woman lose her balance, and to steady herself, she takes a small step toward John. Her high heel lands heavily on John’s foot, who cries out in pain.

“Watch your step!” Sherlock scolds the unlucky woman, who apologises with pink cheeks and a nervous laughter.

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” John mumbles, though his grimace tells another story.

“Are you hurt?”

“It’ll probably bruise, but nothing’s broken,” John assures him.

Sherlock looks sceptically down at him and manhandles John to stand closer to the side of the door where no one can reach him.

“Oi! I’m not a puppet you can just – “

“Shut up, John. I need my blogger and doctor unscathed.”

John starts to giggle once he’s finished rolling his eyes. This always leads to one thing – Sherlock joins him. It is impossible to stay imperious and aloof when he hears John’s laughter, which is extremely contagious.

“You madman,” John grins once he’s composed himself.

“You call me such lovely things, John.” Sherlock says softly, quietly.

John inhales sharply and meets Sherlock’s gaze. The silent conversation that takes place, is impossible for the other passengers to decipher, but the sparks that fly like fireworks through the train, does indeed register. Not on the Richter scale, but close.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @raina-at

@meetinginsamarra @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @topsyturvy-turtely @peanitbear

@phoenix27884 @bs2sjh @brandiwein1982 @a-victorian-girl @221beloved

@ninasnakie @7-percent @lhrinhampstead @chriscalledmesweetie @missdeliadilisblog

@salmonsown @oetkb12 @jawnscoffee @gay-ass-bitch @acumberlockedgirl

@willamholmeswatson @whatnext2020 @mydogwatson @redmondcollege @thegildedbee

@ilovegayangels @elizabethhoodstyles @xmengal03 @riversong912 @givemesherbet-blog-blog

@couldbecannibal @2old2b-fangirl @dw91165 @jonkwatson @binx72

@macgyvershe @kholkate @fookincarrotsandpotatoes28 @talkativeanxiousturtle

@twoandahalfdimes @desi-yearning @johnlock-and-tea @llcsecret @jobooksncoffee

@original-welovethebeekeeper @readingwithgwen @gomielka @rosemelodyshah @221biandconfused

@ghostofnuggetspast @quiscustodiet @battledress @xjessicafaithx @peggyhh

@procrastinatorasfuck @writing-is-like-breathing @susanwhynow @debzwez @hot-on-my-watch

@solarmama-plantsareneat @the-cat-writer @futurewr1ter @copperplatebeech

***

“John, dear, will you – “

“He’s busy,” Sherlock interrupted.

“I’m not, Sherlock,” John protested and sighed exasperatedly.

That was a promising start, I thought.

“What can I help with?” John asked politely.

Sherlock had a lot to learn from John when it came to manners.

“Only a light bulb, dear. But my hip won’t allow me to climb the ladder today.”

The impressive eyeroll Sherlock gave me did not go unnoticed, but it certainly went uncommented.

“No problem, Mrs H. Lead the way,” John said; still polite. 

“I have already estimated the time frame for this endeavour, Hudders,” Sherlock muttered darkly.

“Don’t you worry, dear. I will hand your precious blogger back to you unscathed,” I teased, which made John’s ears turn dark pink alarmingly quick.

***

When John busied himself with changing the light bulb, I put the kettle on. I knew John never refused tea, no matter the hour. The shortbread I placed on a porcelain plate, made his eyes sparkle, and a genuine smile appeared.

“I haven’t had those in ages,” he stated emphatically when I urged him to taste the biscuits.

He closed his eyes and sighed happily while he chewed. This smoothed out the lines on his face, and I could easily picture him as a boy and a teenager.

“So, John, do you like it here? Sherlock isn’t driving you around the bend with all his quirks and oddities?”

I tried to sound innocent, making conversation rather than interrogating the man.

His face lit up, and I knew he was telling the truth when he gushed about the low rent, the excellent location, and he also made sure to praise my baking while he was at it. 

As I said: a polite man.

Before I got the chance to ask about the queries he hadn’t answered, he continued.

“Sherlock…God, where to start? He’s obviously brilliant and extraordinary. A bit mad. Extremely untidy. He’s got no boundaries, you know. But that brain of his…”

He stared into space for a long while, and then he smiled broadly as if remembering a particularly fond moment.

“But it’s more to him than that. I felt it the second he stood next to me in the lab at Barts. There was an invisible connection between us. Utterly curious. Electric, almost. I didn’t even know his name yet, but I knew that my life was about to change. For the better. I was so sure of it.”

“And now?” I prompted when he fell silent again; my patience was wearing thin at that point.

“I was right. My life is getting better by the minute. Being allowed to live and share space with him is…more than I could ever have hoped for. He gives me purpose. I feel valuable, needed; cherished even. Sherlock saved my life that day and I can never repay him. He scoffs at that, of course. Tells me I saved him as well, which I found utterly ridiculous. Until I learned about…his previous troubles. The drugs.”

“I know, dear. So, you will stay, then? You will break his heart if – “

“For as long as he’ll have me.”

Forever, then, I thought to myself. There was no way Sherlock would throw John out. He was already head over heels.

John bid me goodbye, and I heard Sherlock’s deep voice complaining: “She interrogated you. More subtle than Mycroft, but still. Insufferable busybody, is what she is.”

“She just looks out for you, Sherlock.”

“Did you…”

“No, but I think she’s clever enough to figure it out. At least if she dusts upstairs.”

“Oh, she definitely will. Probably the next time we leave the flat. Mark my words.”

“Agreed. Now, how about…”

The talking stopped, but the muffled sounds I heard before I closed my door, were convincing enough. My job was done, and I decided to celebrate with some Stilton, port, and Moulin Rouge.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @raina-at

@meetinginsamarra @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @topsyturvy-turtely @peanitbear

@phoenix27884 @bs2sjh @brandiwein1982 @a-victorian-girl @221beloved

@ninasnakie @7-percent @lhrinchelsea @chriscalledmesweetie @missdeliadilisblog

@salmonsown @oetkb12 @jawnscoffee @gay-ass-bitch @acumberlockedgirl

@willamholmeswatson @whatnext2020 @mydogwatson @redmondcollege @thegildedbee

@ilovegayangels @elizabethhoodstyles @xmengal03 @riversong912 @givemesherbet-blog-blog

@couldbecannibal @2old2b-fangirl @dw91165 @jonkwatson @binx72

@macgyvershe @dragoonthegreatest @kholkate @fookincarrotsandpotatoes28 @talkativeanxiousturtle

@twoandahalfdimes @desi-yearning @johnlock-and-tea @llcsecret @jobooksncoffee

@original-welovethebeekeeper @readingwithgwen @gomielka @rosemelodyshah @221biandconfused

@ghostofnuggetspast @quiscustodiet @battledress @xjessicafaithx @peggyhh

@procrastinatorasfuck @writing-is-like-breathing @susanwhynow @debzwez @hot-on-my-watch

@solarmama-plantsareneat @the-cat-writer @futurewr1ter @copperplatebeech