Chapter Text
John Watson is angry. Not angry-angry. Mt. Vesuvius, AD 79, the destruction of the Roman cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum angry. Sherlock ditched him. Again. Hared off at a moment’s notice without so much as an explanation for his “Oh!”. Hailed a cab, leaving John stranded at the scene of the crime. So what else is new?
John scours the usual places. And the unusual. Sherlock’s homeless network are real tight-lipped bastards when there’s nothing in it for them—John has a ten pound note on his person, which pales in comparison to Sherlock’s standard fifty quid—and Mycroft proves to be as insufferably vague as ever. “While I cannot assure you that my brother is in good hands, the only danger he faces at present is the danger he poses to himself.”
John paces. He sits. He paces some more. Makes tea twice, but neglects to drink either cup before it grows cold.
The front door opens. Closes, the sound of Sherlock’s familiar tread stoking John’s ire. He’s half mad with worry. Red in the face, fists clenched. He swears to God he will flay the man within an inch of his life.
Sherlock breezes through the kitchen.
Ah. Well. It appears someone has beaten John to the punch. Literally.
While his nose isn’t broken, blunt trauma has blackened both of Sherlock’s eyes. He routes around inside the freezer for the bag of thumbs he liberated from Bart’s morgue. Presses the frozen digits against his face.
“Where have you been?”
Sherlock feints around the table. John purses his lips, his glare something of a stimulant to Sherlock’s otherwise dormant sense of self-preservation. Sherlock makes his escape through the living room.
John intercepts him on the landing. “Where, Sherlock? What happened?”
Sherlock diverts to John’s bedroom. John is hot on his heels.
“In case you’ve forgotten, us? We’re partners.”
Sherlock rifles through John’s duffle bag of In Case of Emergencies. He tosses bandages, sutures, ointments, and a stethoscope over his shoulder. John reflexively catches the more fragile of the salves.
“Do you know what that means?”
“Your question is rhetorical, John. You know I hate rhetorical devices,” he lies. “I don’t need you to lecture me on my negligent behavior this evening, thanks.” Sherlock pockets a bottle of pain-killers. (Like hell, John thinks.) Strikes out for the sofa, his Sanctuary a la Petulance.
John restrains him. Sherlock fumbles the thumbs down the stairs. He does not approve of John’s approach to what Mycroft stuffily refers to as a tête-à-tête. Neither does he approve of John’s height advantage during an argument. They wrestle for purchase on the steps. Sharp elbows, muffled curses. But invasion of personal space is a lark; the nostalgia of Basic Training strengthens John’s resolve.
Until.
Sherlock blinks. And he—shit.
Scanning! In the middle of a row! John wonders what Sherlock finds so bloody interesting before the world’s only consulting detective wrinkles his nose, leans forward, and kisses him.
John will not be stunned right now. He can be stunned later. “Nice try,” he says. “Won’t work.”
“You asked for it.”
John starts. Wracks his brain. (Wait. No. He never!) File-thirteens the budding, sexual identity crisis when Sherlock endeavors to leave him to his thoughts. John holds him fast. “We aren’t done! What do I need to say, Sherlock? What do I need to do to get it through that thick skull of yours? If you leave me behind ag—“
Sherlock catches John’s ‘ain’ on the tip of his tongue, stepping up and into John’s mouth. Curls his lips around what would have been an exclamation point. Sips on the dregs of John’s tirade. The nigh imperceptible ‘mmpt’ of their kiss seems to echo throughout the flat.
John Watson is not angry. He’s dazed. More than a little confused. He tries. Desperately tries to reconfigure the grounds for his rage. “Why do you keep doing that? Stop doing that.”
“I will when you stop asking me to.” Sherlock’s fingers are gripping the pulse point of John’s wrist.
“I’m furious, you dick. Not aroused.”
“Oh.”
That doesn’t stop Sherlock from kissing John again. And that doesn’t stop John from letting him.