keep_counting | Fanfiction: The Hassle of Things (Sherlock BBC)

Title: The Hassle of Things
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mrs. Hudson, Sally Donovan
Rating & Warnings: PG - cursing and Sherlock being Sherlock, spoilers for the first season. Pre-slash ~ Slash
Word Count: 1,442
Genre: Humor, Romance. Teensy bit of h/c
Disclaimer: Sadly do not own them, just borrowing for occasional fan~~tasies~~fiction
A/N: This started in one place and ended as something completely different. And it was written at three AM, so I'm apologizing in advance. Ah, the wonders of insomnia. (Also, I had planned for Mycroft to make an appearence. Mycroft, where did you go??)
Summary: 'I'd recommend throwing out those severed fingers. And maybe stop torturing cats.'

The Hassle of Things

It’s pretty safe to say that it started with the explosion.

Not the feelings, per se. The feelings had been there for a while – actually quite longer than Sherlock cared to admit – but, as with several other functions that other people deemed necessary, he had chosen to ignore it. This went fine, absolutely fine, until one Jim Moriarty walked into the scene.

Ignoring it was getting harder and harder by the day.

It didn’t help that John was so glaringly oblivious to it all. If there was ever one time Sherlock needed someone to take him by surprise it was certainly now. But no, the words ‘married to my work’ seemed to have an almost magical effect, leaving the one and only Dr. Watson completely ignorant of what was going on around him.

Sherlock refused to admit that putting the blame on John was childish. Wasn’t his fault that his flat-mate was so bloody vacant.

However, John’s obliviousness was turning into a problem, since Sherlock had deemed himself too cautious (he refused to say cowardly, because he most certainly was not) to do anything that might be seen as… well, an action regular flat-mates, even friends certainly wouldn’t do. Something hopefully involving tongues…

“Sherlock?”

Said man’s head whipped around so fast he could almost hear his neck crack and Sherlock was more than startled to look directly into the concerned eyes of the very person his thoughts had been centered on these past few minutes.

Mouth gone dry – he could feel the pleasant heat rolling off John when he was standing this close – he merely cocked an eyebrow, waiting for the other man to continue.

“Everything alright? You looked a bit… disturbed,” Said John

Not the right word Doctor.

Instead of answering – no he was not afraid his voice might quiver, just because John was moving closer, his breath tickling his temple - he merely let out an ‘hmmm’ noise and went back to staring out the window.

John let out a low sigh - Argh, Sherlock, get a grip! – and turned around, heading for the door.

“I’ll just be going out then.” And the door slammed.

“One day, he’s going to leave, you know.”

Sally Donovan’s voice cut through his chain of thoughts regarding the newest victim (light bruising around the eye, sleeves of jacket worn, someone grabbing upper arm repeatedly over last six months, index finger of left hand recently broken, swelling in the middle indicating she slammed it in a door trying to block someone out, jacket well-used, bought for her eight months ago by abusive boyfriend) and Sherlock had to stop himself from scowling at her. He did, however, roll his eyes.

“If its Dr. Watson you’re referring to, then I believe he left about five minutes and twenty-eight seconds ago. Caller was his sister, relationship issues. Really, Sally, I expected you could do better than that.”

Normally he has better patience with her – alright, so maybe he hasn’t – but recently everything has been grating on his nerves a little bit more. It certainly has nothing to do with the fact that John just dropped everything, including their case to go to his sister. Even if the case was another round of obvious boredom and Sherlock didn’t really need him here.

Of course I need him here.

“Don’t be daft, Freak,” Sally scoffs at him. “I mean, one day he’s going to leave and not come back. No one can keep up with you forever.”

She walks away before he can come with a proper scathing comment, because – even if Sherlock knows that Sally can’t possibly see the future and John has already kept up with a lot of things that would have sent other people screaming long ago – she’s hit the nail right on the head.

No one can keep up – can put up with him forever. Not even John Watson.

Its two days later and John has been taking longer hours at work, because apparently staying home with a bored Sherlock is like ‘running through a mine-field with dangerous chemicals in your pockets and a rabid dog biting your arse’ according to the good doctor.

Yes. It’s already starting. And Sherlock thought it would be a cold day in hell when Sally Donovan was actually right about something.

His fingers are worn and cracked from playing the violin four hours in a row and Mrs. Hudson has already come up to complain more than once, the first time because she thought he’d started doing experiments on live animals, and after he’s snapped at her the fourth time and she’s ready to leave, he suddenly leaps up in his chair and offers ‘Wait…’

“Mrs. Hudson…” He stops and can’t believe he’s actually doing this. Sherlock is never one for saying something if he can’t finish the sentence, so almost a whole minute goes by without a single syllable passing his lips. When the silence is broken, it’s the land-lady who does it.

“Relation-ship issues?” There’s a twinkle in her eyes as if she knows – though Sherlock is 99% certain she has a wrong conclusion, even if it is horribly close to the real issue – and then she continues.

“I’d recommend throwing out those severed fingers you keep in the jars.” Ah, so she knows about them too. Or she’s just guessing, which isn’t very likely, since she’s eyeing the third shelf and not even John knows he’s stashed them there. “And maybe stop torturing cats.”

“Ah.” Is all he can say, yet again wondering when in the blazes he lost the ability to form coherent sentences.

John comes home and is too tired to notice at first. He practically drags himself up the stairs and it’s all Sherlock can do not to run down there and pull him up himself. For once, he sits still, fingers impatiently tapping at his knee, forcefully stopping himself from jumping up and shouting ‘look, look!’ while pointing around the flat (maybe putting seven cubes of sugar in his tea hadn’t been the best idea, but he’d needed the energy to make himself even think of doing this)

Because cleaning is so mundane. And frankly, one of the most boring things he’s ever done.

John finally appears at the door, kicks off his shoes, hangs up his jacket, turns around with a tired smile…

And abruptly stops dead in his tracks.

Sherlock’s grin is as wide as the Cheshire cats (and no, he hasn’t deleted ‘Alice in Wonderland’, and the reason is most certainly that he once had to chase a serial killer who was convinced she was the Queen of Hearts across half of Europe, and definitely not that it was Mummy’s favorite to read aloud to him when he was little)

“You… you… you…” John is blinking as if he’s sure he’s dreaming and Sherlock’s smile gets impossibly wider. John repeating himself and not being able to finish a sentence – a predicament that Sherlock can empathize with since recent events – is a clear sign that he’s either distressed or positively stunned, the latter which can go either way.

Realizing that there might not be coming sense out of the other man anytime in the close future, Sherlock stands up from his place on the couch, lightly stepping closer to his flat-mate.

“The vacuum cleaner needs, well… we need a new vacuum cleaner. And I broke some of the plates, but other than that… well, and the fact that this has all been an absolutely mortifying experience for me…” He lets the rest of it hang in the air, not wanting to elaborate on the fact that the small smile that has now appeared on John’s face is worth all this hassle (though definitely not on a regular basis.)

“You cleaned.” John’s voice is full of glee and he’s practically bouncing on the spot. If it wasn’t because he looked so darn adorable, Sherlock would roll his eyes.

“Yes, well… but don’t expect me to do so again anytime soon.” And just because John is still smiling, he steps closer.

“But then why?” John is looking at him now, studying him carefully, but he’s still smiling and Sherlock steps closer. “Really. Cleaning is too normal for you.”

I think so too.

“You shouldn’t do all of the house-work, all of the time.” Is all he can think to say. Mrs. Hudson would be proud of him, he’s sure.

John grins. “Just most of the time.”

Sherlock grins back and just because he can – and because John is so close and his face is flushed and happy and smiling – he bends down and catches that mouth in a kiss.