»»──────　SH　──────««

Serenity. Solitude. Emptiness. Ease.

Bored. BORED!

Sherlock was lying on the couch with his bare feet pressed against the armrest, wiggling his toes in boredom. He had nothing to do.

In the afternoon, he embarked on a weekly batch of laundry, since he reached for a last clean T-shirt this morning. Sherlock hated housework, but he would rather wash it himself than allow John to see his large clothing.

After a few two-hour washing programmes, he took soggy bundles out of the washing machine drum and pegged up John's belongings in the usual place in the bathroom. However, he couldn't just hang his own in this room, right beside John's. Despite thoroughly cutting out all tags, the thought of parading his baggy, twice as wide clothes in the restroom where John could easily see them didn't sound very tempting.

Throwing it all in the basket, he carried it into his room, where he had already stretched the line from the handle of the window to the bookcase so he could attach his clothing and let it dry.

He was done now, waiting for John to return from work.

Quarter past five.

John was nowhere to be heard or seen.

17:20.

John nowhere to be seen.

Half-past five.

John still nowhere to be seen...

To be honest, the fact that John hadn't arrived yet concerned him. His shifts usually ended around five o'clock, and the way here took half an hour when the traffic didn't get too jammed. So where was he? Where?!

God, he was getting paranoid. John could have just been held up at work.

After six o'clock, he found it strange. At half past six, he got worried. And just a few minutes later, he contemplated calling him.

No, no, no—he would only look like a desperate, obtruding dog. He didn't want that. He wouldn't lower himself to that level.

The flat felt dull, unfriendly, and hostile. Nasty, heavy silence covered the living room, giving his ever-thinking mind a place to revive memories he would rather forget.

And even the newspapers he reached for didn't brighten his mood. His brain kept clinging to completely different thoughts other than the boring news of a mundane day. That was why his eyes brushed across the page without perceiving the lines he's been reading.

Maybe it wouldn't be such a big deal if it happened once. But John has gotten "held up" like this several times.

Sherlock loathed how suspicious and distrustful he became. He couldn't depend on John like this! He had no right to keep him in here, John could do whatever he wanted, his life was none of Sherlock's business. It was none of his privileges to measure how long he takes to get home and order who he had to associate with, where he could go and where he can't ...

Yet he couldn't banish the horrible thought that something had happened to him. Or that John finally came to the conclusion that living with him is only a waste of his time.

Did he find himself a girlfriend?

No, he would have noticed!

"Would you? You have missed much more important things than this. Are you still a detective?"

"Shut up!" he lashed out at himself and clenched his hands into fists.

Just the idea of John with some dressed-up goose awakened a strong yet irrational wave of anger. Or was it jealousy?

What could she and her average IQ possibly offer him? What has she got that he doesn't?

True, he's not much fun anymore, but does John really find him that annoying?

They hadn't argued once in the time they'd lived together again. After all, there was no reason to fight—Sherlock has completely given up his (often) terribly unhygienic experiments, and he did his best to restrain himself from playing the violin in the early morning hours. He even helped John look after the household.

The latter seemed nothing like him. Nature presented Sherlock with the ability to make a mess anywhere and practically out of thin air. In the first year and a half of their coexistence, the living room resembled more like a warehouse, and the kitchen usually resembled a chemical laboratory, and if it wasn't for John, the state of these rooms would be permanent.

But after losing almost everything, he learned to value and care for his home much more than ever before.

So the rub must have been elsewhere.

Was it because he's a man? John kept on insisting that he was not gay, and many people might have bought it, but Sherlock wasn't a man to be fooled so easily. John may not have been gay, but the detective dared to say that he wasn't a hundred per cent straight either.

Well, she might be prettier and nicer, he concluded. He chuckled. Of course, John would hardly fall for such an asocial, cheeky, rude, obnoxious, and obese freak!

Why does it matter anyway? Love and feelings only slow him down, weaken him, and make an easier target out of him.

But no matter how hard he tried to delude himself into thinking that he needed no emotions or friends, he knew he would be lost without his blogger. Everybody could see that—friends and, unfortunately, even his enemies, who did not hesitate to use this weakness of his against him. Just like -

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Creak on the fifth stair. Another clap, clap, clap...

Sherlock froze and cocked his ears. He hated surprises; he knew that a slight moment of inattention was enough for a disaster to happen. Not that he was expecting one right now, but he preferred to follow the "always ready" principle.

The steps.

Tilting his head closer to the source of the noise, he listened deeply to the regular thuds on the staircase.

Mrs Hudson? No, too heavy-footed for a woman. Not to mention that their landlady didn't pay visits during those evening hours. Although she could be a tough woman from time to time, she liked to follow a regular daily regimen and rarely deviated from it. If he wasn't mistaken, a bath and an evening pill to relieve her hip pain awaited her now.

Mycroft? Too resolute for him.

Lestrade would let him know he was coming. He wouldn't have visited him without calling him first.

It had to be John.

And he was right.

"Hey," the doctor greeted as he stepped into the flat and took off his jacket.

Sherlock glanced up and placed the Daily Telegraph on the backrest of the sofa. He looked him up and down, from the tips of his shoes to the roots of his hair, and finally stared at John's face.

It must have been freezing outside, judging by his red nose. His cheeks, weather-beaten by the cool wind, glowed crimson. And yet, their shade revealed that the unfriendly weather wasn't the only thing at fault. Sniffing the air like a dog, he narrowed his eyes.

No love story then–at least not today.

"Interesting. You let Lestrade smoke while I'm barely allowed one nicotine patch? Are you biassed against me?" he smirked, tilting his head daringly as a characteristic scent of pub and cigarette smoke tickled his nose.

John huffed. "Sorry, I don't want you to get lung cancer... Not to mention that this flat is mine as well as yours, and I don't want to live in a place with a nasty smell. Anyway, is it even worth asking how you knew where and who I was with?"

"No, but I can tell you anyway..." he paused, swung himself up into a sitting position in a swift motion, and fixed his keen eye on John. "You had a hard day at work, so you decided to relax a bit. You accepted Lestrade's invitation and joined him in the pub."

"It could have been Mike Stamford. Or a woman. I'm not that old to get off with someone, right? How do you know it was Greg?" John wanted to know.

The detective's forehead wrinkled theatrically. "Who? I was talking about Lestrade. Why are you mixing some Greg into this discussion?"

"That would be because it's the very same person..."

Sherlock waved it off with a quiet "Oh". He knew Lestrade's name was Greg, of course.

True, he might not exactly brim with politeness, but he considered Greg his friend, and it would be highly impolite of him if he didn't remember his first name...

But now, back to deductions. "Child's play... On principle, you don't drink alone, and you order the same as your companion. You drank one pint of beer because your walk is fluid and free of limps. Alcohol—in smaller quantities—has a beneficial effect on your leg. Thanks to the improved mood, you forget about psychosomatic pain. Men usually drink beer more often than women. Your clothes reveal to me it was Lestrade and not Stamford." he said nonchalantly and pointed towards John's already hung jacket and afterwards towards the clothing John was currently wearing.

Confused, John looked down at his sweater and examined it carefully. "My clothes?" he asked.

"It smells like smoke. The person who smoked sat opposite you, at the same table. As far as I know, Stamford doesn't smoke. My brother does, sometimes, but he would never lower himself to set foot into a pub, and he wouldn't touch a beer, even if only with the tip of his tongue. So you were with a man who turned back to his smoking habits, likes to have a pint or two, and needed to talk with someone close. The bottom line—Lestrade..." Sherlock finished his long monologue.

John's appreciative and praising face almost made him squirm with bliss. Only John looked at him this way.

"I just cannot understand why you would do that... voluntarily waste your brain cells..." the detective couldn't help but note.

"So now you admit we have some?" John retorted with a teasing smile.

The detective stared at him as if he had fallen from Mars. "Well, this stupid question must have killed a few more of them... Of course, you have them, everybody has a brain. Did I ever say you do not?" he furrowed his dark eyebrows in confusion.

The right corner of John's mouth twitched. "Actually, you did–just yesterday when we watched the news..."

Ah... Now, as he thought about it, he might have said something similar. How could he not? The solution was so obvious he could solve it with his eyes closed.

John knew him for a long time, to say this couldn't be considered an insult. Just an innocent statement and summarization of the IQs of the police force.

"It's okay, I know you don't mean it..." John snorted cheerfully and disappeared into the bathroom.

Sherlock let himself fall back on the couch, rearranged the cushion under his head, and unfolded the newspaper on his belly. At least he could make some use of it—when he has to lug this added weight everywhere he goes, he has his personal table.

This time, he could focus a bit more on what he was reading. The sound of running water coming from the bathroom did not disturb him. In fact, the knowledge that he was not alone in the apartment helped him relax.

"You know, we could decorate the living room, to make it look a little more festive here," John suggested when he returned to his friend ten minutes later. Clean and fresh after the evening shower, carrying two cups of tea.

Tiny drops dripped from the ends of his hair and soaked into the white V-neck shirt. A thin fabric clung to his warm skin, nicely emphasising John's manly chest. Short sleeves bared his slim arms, and Sherlock found himself unable to tear his eyes off them for a while.

London rarely affords many opportunities to get a suntan, but John has always been naturally quite dark-skinned, and in the contrast with his light t-shirt, his beige pigment was visible even more.

What a shame to hide under those ugly baggy jumpers! John should forget about them and show some skin instead!

Come on, concentrate, you can't stare at him like this! What did John just say? Something about Christmas?

Christmas! God, no... Sentimental TV commercials full of heart-wrenching scenes, illuminated shop windows overfilled with various enticements, tips on Christmas presents, and Christmas-themed goods. Excessive decorations wherever he glances, tedious kitsch, and tastelessness all over!

And above all, there will be people meeting and having fun together. People who will give each other pompous presents, hug each other, and laugh! John would persuade him not to look like a grouch and to have some fun. And Sherlock would put on one of his falsest smiles and pretend that he was having a great time.

He truly couldn't think of a better way to spend the evening...

Sherlock questioningly lifted his right eyebrow and threw the daily press on the table. "Why? There will be no Christmas party, anyway. At least, I hope not. Last year was enough for me...."

John put Sherlock's cup on the coffee table and sat down in the armchair with his own. "Oh, come on, don't be such a Grinch," he said with a sneer, raising the hot tea to his lips and taking a sip.

The detective frowned. Who was John talking about? "Who?" he asked, insulted. He had no clue about who John was comparing him to, but it offended him...

"You don't know who's-..." John shook his head and laughed. "No, nothing surprises me after the solar system..."

Come on! Why does everyone find it weird that he doesn't feel a need to store useless information that only occupies the free space in his brain when he could use it for something helpful?

Before Sherlock could say that the solar system is a completely insignificant thing that only takes up space in his brain, John set his mug on the table, got up, and went for his laptop.

"Alright, movie night tonight—you need to broaden your horizons about Christmas classics," he suggested, and without waiting for Sherlock's answer, he was already going through the list of his downloaded movies.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and scoffed. "I've got far better things to do than watch a stupid movie all night...."

Fifteen minutes later...

"It's not biologically possible to have such a small heart, you know..." Sherlock said with his eyes rolled up just after the first few minutes.

John smirked. "It's called a fairy tale, Sherlock... Almost everything is biologically possible in them..."

"Can't I express a humble opinion?" he defended himself and continued to focus on the screen of John's laptop, which stood on the table in front of the sofa.

To his surprise, he didn't find the movie as dumb as he initially expected. Yes, it was animated and childish, with lots of nonsense and unclarities (but to be more specific, movies that Sherlock would have described as meaningful could be counted on the fingers of one or both hands at most). And, of course, he came up with a mouthful of comments.

("Who has ever seen a dog who plays the drums?" or "If he thinks the dog will be strong enough to pull the sleigh, then he's even more limited than I thought...").

And yet he had to acknowledge that he was having a good time, so good that some scenes made his lips curl. But John's company cheered him up the most.

The amiable doctor sat on the sofa just a few centimetres from him, which resulted in an occasional brush of the elbow by the elbow or the thigh by the thigh. No wonder, since they sat side by side so that they could see the rather small screen of John's laptop. Not to mention that Sherlock took up a bit more space now.

None of them seemed to mind the unaware contact, and the living room sank into a calm, homely atmosphere. Their evening went by nicely, and Sherlock finally felt like himself again after a long time.

He would even go so far as to say that this evening reminded him of those times before "the Fall". As if it was yesterday when John "forced" him (if Sherlock truly doesn't want something, you wouldn't force him, but what he wouldn't do for John?) to watch Bond films, and he would repay him in the form of funny observations and remarks.

"Leaving aside the fact you're comparing me to a green, hairy creature, I have to admit that you were quite right... Except for that appalling taste in music... Or are you implying something?" Sherlock commented on the film in the closing credits.

Instead of a reply, something fell on his shoulder. He needn't search for long. The regular breathing announced that it was John's head that leaned against him.

His fair hair tickled Sherlock on his neck, and he shivered. He's never found himself so close to John. Nice heat, and a familiar scent of aftershave, deodorant, and cheap shampoo radiated from his skin, and he couldn't resist. Glancing to the side, instead of John's dark blue irises, he met perfectly smooth eyelids and dense light lashes.

John's sleeping face emitted calmness and balance. His cheekbones no longer protruded so prominently, and his face returned to its original round shape. Dark bags underneath his closed lids faded, showing that John did not suffer from nightmares so often. And with a few newly gained pounds, he suddenly seemed at least ten years younger.

However, he couldn't get a grasp on whose credit it was that John started to resemble the "good old John" instead of his empty shell. After all, Sherlock hasn't taken a single case since John returned to Baker Street.

And yet his psychosomatic limping improved day by day.

He gave an impression of someone happy. Relaxed. Lively.

He watched him for a while, and suddenly he got overtaken by an intense urge to envelop him in his arms. He's never felt anything like that, and the intensity of that feeling surprised him. His arms tingled with a compulsion to pull John closer, and Sherlock, to his surprise, found himself willing to please them.

If only he could press John to his chest and ruffle his hair. He would finally find out (for scientific reasons only, of course!) whether they feel like hedgehog's spikes to the touch or whether they just appear that way. If only...

But the rational part of his brain warned him it wouldn't be wise to do so.

"Who would want to hug you? Do you think John would like to cuddle a fat pig? No surprise he leaned against you when your massive butt takes up almost the whole sofa..." the creaky voice mocked him in his mind, ruining the detective's already thin self-belief.

John's complex sleeping habits also needed to be taken into consideration. After all, John was a very light sleeper—the remnants of his army days in Afghanistan—and he could wake up any second.

What could Sherlock possibly say to his defence if John had woken up and found himself in Sherlock's embrace? Even Sherlock, who never had a friend, was well aware that these kinds of thoughts exceeded the boundaries of friendship.

He couldn't risk losing this special connection they had.

Throwing these intruding ideas aside, he contemplated the most non-violent way to wake John up. He could just stand up and let gravity do its job, but he could not do something so cruel to him. He placed his hand on John's knee instead and gave it a little shake.

"John?" he whispered.

John stirred and huffed in irritation, but showed no other signs of awakening.

There was a rational and pretty sensitive option: he could let John sleep on the couch. But he knew, though, that John's shoulder—or rather, the scar from the bullet—would hate him if he had.

"Time to wake up, John," Sherlock said, louder this time, and poked him with another gentle nudge. He received a better result this time.

John squinted a few times, then opened his eyes and adorably groped around before he realised where he was. Wait for a second, did Sherlock just think adorably? He meant sleepily.

"I fell asleep..." John rasped at the sight of the screen with paused credits.

"Excellent deduction, John. I couldn't do it better myself..." Sherlock teased with an impish smile.

John turned around to face his companion and slapped his arm playfully. "Don't be a git..." he laughed.

Despite its vulgar meaning, Sherlock sensed warmth and gratitude concealed in that word. At that moment, John's laughter sounded so happy, lighthearted, and contagious that he could do nothing else but join him.

The living room filled with joyful fits of giggles.

With a stomach full of delicious hot tea and John by his side, Sherlock truly enjoyed himself after a very long time. He liked the pleasant touch of the hand that lay on his forearm—which felt a bit as if John forgot he had put it there. The heat that came from it leaked into his skin even through the long sleeve of his grey t-shirt, arousing strange desires he had never thought he could experience.

It would be so easy to let John's hand slide into his big palm and intertwine his fingers with John's...

No, this was not a good idea. 'Caring is not an advantage', he recalled the words Mycroft had imposed on him since their early childhood. And Sherlock fiercely tried to respect them. Until he met John...

But John deserves better. Someone social, polite, and nice. Someone who will provide him with a safe and family environment. Someone he will not be ashamed of.

Sherlock got up from the couch, grabbed both empty mugs, and carried them into the kitchen. "Well, I have to say that it was not that much of a disaster as I expected..." he evaluated the movie he's just seen. And that was the highest compliment he was capable of.

»»──────　★　──────««

Like the Grinch, Sherlock would have preferred to avoid Christmas altogether, but John insisted on celebrating this awfully commercial and useless holiday.

And so he swallowed his dignity and agreed to help with decorations. He had to make it up to John for months of loneliness and mourning.

The New Year's Eve, unfortunately, didn't turn out to be to Sherlock's liking.

Not even the 'Science of Deduction' could have prepared him for the present that was about to come.

"John, you know I would rather not celebrate Christmas at all. I don't need any opulent presents," Sherlock said when he saw a simple, yet thoroughly wrapped package.

Let it be a small gift, Sherlock hoped. Presents don't necessarily have to cost half a salary to make the gifted one happy, right?

Unlike John, he didn't excel at shopping and getting felicitous gifts (in his defence, the essay where he explored why John's friends hate him took a while to write...)

But he had improved a lot since last Christmas and felt optimistic enough to say that John will be pleased. John wasn't very fond of stereotypes, so Sherlock skipped the boring wrapping part and came up with a different way to present it to John.

"I think you do... It's from Greg, Molly, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, and me... And just so you know, in all modesty, it was me who came up with this idea...." John opposed him with a smile and handed him a large, soft bundle wrapped in a paper patterned in chemistry-themed pictures.

Sherlock took it from him and slid his fingers under the wrapping. His fingertips found quite a heavy but soft fabric, the texture of which he knew very well.

He froze and blinked in confusion.

That was...

To be honest, he expected nothing big. A plain jumper would have been enough for him—the fact that he got something from John would have drowned out even the ugliest pattern in the world. Not to mention that his rather poor wardrobe would appreciate a proper replenishment.

But this...

The atmosphere in the living room thickened faster than a semolina pudding, along with John's uncertainty. Sherlock could almost hear the gears rotating in John's brain as John thought—or, rather, racked his brain over the idea of whether he made a mistake by giving him this present or not.

Any other time, he wouldn't have let this slip away without comment, but the words melted on his tongue.

Sherlock felt the nervousness John radiated; he must have felt like a cat on a hot tin roof.

Finally, he took mercy and peeled off the sticking tape.

Something big and warm fell out of the wrapping paper.

His eyes glistened, and the right corner of his mouth curled upside. The jet-black coat was lying on his lap.

You wouldn't tell it apart from the one he got from Mycroft a few years ago–the very same cut and length, identical shade, even the redly embroidered top buttonhole.

Except for the number on the tag, which showed the size of the said garment.

His smile faltered.

Suddenly, the coat occupying his knees turned into a heavy boulder. It was like every button screamed at him that he had no right to put it on. Well, how could he when he could not deal with his things on his own and just blindly waited for the rescue? When he didn't keep the vow he had given himself and left John in London, unprotected and vulnerable?

"John... I really appreciate it. But I can't take it," Sherlock said coldly, handing the present he got from his friends to John with an unreadable expression.

John, to Sherlock's irritation, downright ignored this attempt of his. Sherlock could feel confusion, betrayal, and disappointment from every spot on his face and voice.

"What? Why couldn't you?"

Sherlock dodged his eyes from John's gaze, as he felt like a patient under the x-ray.

He firmly squeezed his eyelids, and an enormous lump clogged his throat.

They expected him to be the brilliant git who likes to show off, and the only things he cares about are interesting cases and logical puzzles. That he'll become a man so stoic and calm that he can't get upset by anyone or anything (except for tantrums that occasionally emerged from the lack of entertainment... Or that time when John flushed his precious collection of mould into the toilet...)

That's why John and his friends gave him the coat. All the more, Sherlock feared he wouldn't be able to meet their expectations. That's why he couldn't accept the generous gift he was given, for fear he would disappoint them even more.

"I apologise. I simply can't. Just leave it, John," he said, turning around and about to leave the living room, hoping that John's interest would fade. He needed to be alone for a moment, to process everything in the peace of his room.

Maybe everything will settle down as soon as he wakes up from the initial shock, and he will find a way to accept this kind of gift. But he can't do this at the moment.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" he changed the topic, trying to end the discussion before it turned into a nasty argument. Besides, he would like to gift John as well. The gift could also occupy John's attention, and Sherlock would have time to take everything in.

Short fingers, covered with calluses, wrapped around his wrist, ruining the plan Sherlock had prepared. Instead of the kitchen, he appeared face to face with his frowning flatmate.

"No Sherlock... Not before you tell me why you don't want to take it..." John insisted uncompromisingly, flitting his gaze between Sherlock and the gift he was trying to give him back.

Sherlock felt cornered. Why is John doing this to him? Doesn't he understand? Or is he testing him, curious about how much Sherlock can take before he snaps?

"Why do you want to know? Just so you can finally write some blog entry on your pathetic, boring blog?" he spat out at his friend rather sharply and hurled the coat at him as if it had turned into a ticking bomb.

Thanks to his amazing military reflexes, John reacted before it could have hit him in the face, catching the coat swiftly.

"Because I want to help you, you idiot! But clearly, you don't value my help, so I will not impose on you again!" John exclaimed and threw the coat on the armchair.

"I don't remember asking for it!" Sherlock hissed venomously. On the contrary, he recalled having asked John to stay out of those things. And John promised he wouldn't question him further. What has gotten into him again?

"Yeah, you and your brilliant, stubborn head might not... But can't you see how you're wasting away? When was the last time you went out? And I don't mean just out of necessity, but just like that? When was the last time you solved a case? Damn it, you don't even bring here any organs from the mortuary so you could do your nasty experiments. What happened to you, Sherlock?" John's voice raised and raised until he practically yelled.

And then Sherlock lost it.

Is John implying that he's had enough of this lazy, slow, and incompetent detective? That if he doesn't do something about himself, then he'll pack his bags and move out? Is he blaming him for doing nothing but lounging around at home?

"Stop it! Stop bossing me around, I've had enough of it last time, don't worry... 'Sherlock, do this! Sherlock, don't do that! It's for your own good!" he said in a sarcastic imitation of his brother and friend.

John breathed in to protest. "But -"

Sherlock cut him off insensitively and continued in his enraged monologue. "I'm just fat, not crippled. You don't have to hold my hand all the time! I'm done with crime-solving, do you understand? And if you can't get over it, go and solve the crimes on your own! No one's holding you back!"

Sherlock had no doubt that the entire street must have heard them, but he didn't care about it in the slightest at the moment. He was sick of tiptoeing around John all the time!

Standing opposite each other, Sherlock trembled in fury, huffing like a steam locomotive, while John just stared at him in shock. Then the doctor took a large gulp of air, and his face hardened into a stony, indifferent mask.

"You know what? Get stuffed!" he hissed.

Sherlock flinched. John's words hurt more than a slap across the cheek. The red curtain of anger that clouded his vision shattered, and he realised with horror how horribly he had treated John. He wanted to take everything back, but once he had said it, it couldn't be deleted.

"I need some air or I'll tell you something I'll regret later!" With that, John turned his back on him, strode out of the flat, and didn't miss an opportunity to slam the door.

AN

Hello!

I'm here with a next chapter, this time a bit longer and more tense.
Did you expect Sherlock to get such a gift? And what do you think of his reaction? I have to say that I feel sorry for both of them (I know, it's mean of me to torture them like this😂).

PS: I know the animated Grinch came out long after Sherlock, but I liked it more than the original one 😂

Yours,
PaulineHolmes02🖤