Fic: You Can Say That Again (Sherlock BBC)

[keep_counting]

Title: You Can Say That Again  
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Sarah, Mycroft, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson
Rating PG13
Warnings: Small hints of men shagging, one use of the f-word
Genre: Humor/Romance
Word-count: 1,399
Disclaimer: Don't own, unfortunately never will
Summary:  Sherlock likes to cuddle and John is a genius. Yeah, you read that right. 

You Can Say That Again

 

On most days when he has to go to work and there isn’t a case for them, John wakes up and is trapped. There are long limbs curled around him tightly from behind and a warm face nuzzled into the back of his neck.

Of course, he tries just gently wriggling free, but that will only result in Sherlock hugging him closer and, eventually, if John keeps wriggling and they’re too close to the edge of the bed, a sudden crash to the floor.

No, waking Sherlock is usually the better way to go.

“Sher? Hey, Sherlock?” He tries twisting his head – which is hard – and unfolding his arms to poke at the other man – which is even harder. All he gets is a grunt and Sherlock mumbles something incoherent.

“I need to get up… honestly…” Apparently, not sleeping for three days will make Sherlock a living dead. If he doesn’t wake up soon, John is so going to be late (again). “Sherlock, let go.”

After much struggling and a few muttered curses (from John, of course, Sherlock would never stoop to such a level, even when half-unconscious) John is finally, gloriously free. Of course then, there’s the awkward bumping against a wardrobe or something of the other – even after months John still hasn’t gotten completely used to the interior of Sherlock’s bedroom. But he’s sure he’s going to get there, eventually.

“Uh, Sherlock?” He calls out, picking up his discarded shirt from the floor. “Where’s my trousers?”

“Mmmh… dunno,” Is mumbled sleepily into a pillow. Now that John isn’t there to wrap around, Sherlock has grasped the opportunity to stretch out and fill as much of the bed as possible, lying flat on his stomach.

“Well, you where the one who so kindly removed them from my person last night, Mr. Detective,” John retorts waiting - one, two, three…

“… kitchen sink.”

John grins and goes to get his pants.

 

oOo

 

“You’re in late,” Sarah tells him, her eyes sparkling. “Rough night?”

“Uh… you could say that.” Darn her for smiling so knowingly and darn the blood that’s rushing to his cheeks. Oh, well. He should probably just get used to it.

“So, what exactly is going on with you two?” She will ask later, spoon stirring gentle waves in her coffee-cup. “I mean, are you an item or…”

“You could say that,” John breaks her off before she can say much more, taking a large gulp of the scalding hot coffee and trying to ignore the burn as it goes down.

Later he decides to walk home instead of taking a cab, because heck the weather is beautiful, but then it starts to goddamn rain and before he even has time to moan completely about his situation, a sleek black car pulls up beside him.

“Have some water,” Mycroft says and John isn’t sure if it’s a bad joke or not, but then the man actually hands him a bottle and smiles all mysteriously (which John figures is the only smile the oldest Holmes actually makes use of). “Your throat must be burning after that: you really should know better, doctor.”

Mycroft, you creep, John thinks, but dutifully takes a gulp of the water. It’s soothing, small drops of cold running from his mouth and all through his body.

“So, I’m guessing –“ And here John has to snort, though he tries to hide it with a cough and Mycroft sends him a look that could either be ‘die-soldier-die’ or perhaps a bit approving, but John ignores him, because he know that of all thing, Mycroft never guesses.

“Oh, well.” The never-absent umbrella is twirled lightly in his hand as the car drives over a small bump. “I trust you’re taking care of him?”

John doesn’t need confirmation of who they’re talking about.

“You could say that,” He answers, enjoying the way Mycroft’s brow furrows for the smallest of seconds, before the umbrella gets another twirl.

“I suppose as long as he’s entertained, he’s tolerable to live with.”

John just smiles and the car stops at 221b Baker Street. When he walks in, he’s still holding the water bottle and Sherlock actually puts down the violin long enough to glare at said item in John’s hand.

“Next time, tell him to piss off.” He says and John laughs.

oOo

“Sherlock…” Lestrade says the name in a cautionary tone, the rest of the sentence hanging unused in the air. John looks at the mentioned man, standing over the body a few feet away. Lestrade awkwardly clears his throat and John turns to look at him.

“I mean, you and Sherlock… you are, right? Together, I mean.” Lestrade studies him carefully. “I mean, not that it’s a problem. Not at all. Just curious I guess. You are, right?”

“You could say that,” John says, walking off as Sherlock calls (more like orders) him over.

“I have been worrying about him, you know.” Mrs. Hudson says later that evening, as Sherlock is out talking to one of his countless contacts and John is alone with their land-lady. “Always in such a hurry, never properly taking care of himself. I did wonder, you know, back when I first met him. How could a lad like him not have a girlfriend?” She skitters around, pours tea and practically stuffs biscuits in John’s mouth. “And I’m so glad that you’ve found each other, I must say.” She stops look enough to give him an odd look. “He is taking care of you, isn’t he?”

John thinks of cooking and cleaning and washing the clothes and how Sherlock’s properly never done that in his entire life and then smiles at Mrs. Hudson.

“You could say that,” He repeats for the hundred time and then their talk is interrupted by the front door slamming and Sherlock almost skipping up the steps, shouting for John and something like designer watches, serial killer and feathered ducklings.

The case is just one to Sherlock’s liking and the glow in his eyes is always something John enjoys to see, but after the seventh night of no sleep for the consulting detective, he has to put his foot down.

“You can’t keep going if you don’t get sleep,” John says, dancing the same dance again. He knows what Sherlock is going to say.

“I’ll sleep when it’s solved.”

“That could take forever.”

Sherlock shoots him a scalding look, as burning as hot coffee and John gives him a sweet smile.

“It wasn’t a jibe towards your abilities.”

“No, really?” Sherlock seats himself on the couch, papers shuffling around in his hands. “I’d prefer some silence, if you would be so obliged.” He says, his tone annoyed and sarcastic and not at all questionable, as his attention turn back to the papers.

John waits exactly four and a half minutes, before moving closer, gently sliding over the couch. If Sherlock notices, he gives no sign of it. John picks up his phone and texts Harry, allowing almost ten minutes to pass before moving just a tiny bit closer.

Sherlock’s laid down the papers now and is typing away on his laptop and as something pops up, both on the screen and in Sherlock’s head – John can tell now, after all this time, when something hits the detective like a lightning bolt from the sky – and any moment now there’ll be questions and rattling of deductions and John moves just a little bit closer before that happens.

It’s almost half an hour later – and he’s already so close they’re practically touching – when John leans against Sherlock’s arm and almost unconsciously, the other man shifts, angling his body so that his head is closer to John’s shoulder.

Ten minutes. John’s hand comes up to rest at the back of Sherlock’s neck, not moving, just there. Sherlock is most definitely leaning against him now, his head pressed against John’s collarbone and long form curled together to better accommodate the small space they’re sitting on. The screen of the laptop is blinking and so are Sherlock’s eyes, slowly and lazily. Seven days are a long time without sleeping.

Sherlock’s eyes drift upwards to focus on him, a small glare in his general direction.

“I suppose you think you’re clever,” He says, his voice tired and annoyed and just a tiny bit pleased.

John grins. “I’m fucking brilliant,” He says, watching as Sherlock quickly falls asleep.

Comments

[kozibot.livejournal.com]

ZING! Good one, Johnny boy :)

This was adorable. Thank you for sharing!

[keep-counting.livejournal.com]

Thank-you for the lovely comment :)