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John came home late on Friday night; he had been drinking with Mike at a nearby pub and was pleasantly surprised that his good time hadn’t been interrupted by Sherlock at all. Being John, which meant he was respectful and kind and not loud, even when drunk, he tiptoed up the stairs quietly; which meant that he actually tripped up the stairs, cursing and mumbling before slamming the door behind him in anger.
Something was bubbling on the bench that John didn’t want to look at and his laptop was open, courtesy of none other than Sherlock Holmes, flat mate and boyfriend. John hung his jacket on the back of his chair and went about getting himself a glass of water so he didn’t wake up with a hangover in the morning. He nursed the water as he shuffled over to his laptop and closed the screen. When everything went dark and John was satisfied that his laptop wasn’t going to go flat overnight, he hurried off to bed. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen and John hoped that meant he was getting some sleep, as per the doctor’s orders.
The next morning dawned bright, far too bright for one previously Captain John Watson, who grumbled his displeasure at the sunlight and tried to roll over to go back to sleep. Much to his surprise, he realised his bed was being shared. Sherlock groaned and his eyelids fluttered before he looked up sleepily at John.
“’M tryin’ to sleep,” he muttered, annoyed. John just nodded.
“So leave me alone,” Sherlock said. John just nodded.
“What are you staring at?” Sherlock glared. John giggled. He wouldn’t admit to it when retelling the story but as he looked over his disgruntled boyfriend, he giggled.
“You’ve got a bit of something on your face,” John told him, smiling. Sherlock frowned, something John found very cute generally, but today it only made him laugh.
“Oh Sherlock, you should see yourself! Who did this to you? Or did you do it to yourself? To see if you could write backwards or something?”
Sherlock continued to frown at John and then tilted his head in a confused gesture.
“I didn’t do anything! What are you harping about? And I’m more than capable of writing backwards.”
John had of course figured out by now that the writing, and drawing, on Sherlock’s face wasn’t in Sherlock’s handwriting at all. In fact, it was in John’s! He grinned even brighter and nodded.
“Okay, how about you go have a look in the mirror and I’ll make us some cuppas?” John tried to placate his pouting boyfriend.
“What did you do?” said boyfriend grouched. John just held his hands up in the universal sign of surrender and pointed at the bathroom.
“Have a look.”
-O-O-O-O-
Sherlock stormed out of the bathroom looking murderous, and scrubbing at his face.
“This is not my handwriting and I don’t really need to ask, but were you intoxicated when you wrote this?” Sherlock sounded put out and grumpy. John burst out laughing and shook his head.
“I’m sorry Sherlock, I had no idea I was that drunk!” Despite his words, John didn’t sound like he was contrite in the least. He handed Sherlock a black cup of tea and motioned at the obscene words and pictures on Sherlock’s face.
“Can’t you get it off?” he asked, and then burst out laughing at the irony of what he had just said.
“Really John, you’re being immature,” Sherlock frowned. “I have a penis on my face, which you drew, in permanent marker, and all you can do is laugh?”
John just nodded and pointed at the picture.
“You have a cock on your face!”
“Yes and I can’t wash it off!” Sherlock stormed out of the room while John cackled behind him.
-O-O-O-O-
Sherlock had spent most of the morning in the bathroom, trying to scrub the picture of a phallus off his face. Accompanying the penis were the words “I love John’s doodle” and “My best friend is a penis”. While a bit difficult to read, as the writing was squashed on Sherlock’s forehead and cheeks, the meaning was easy enough to understand.
John had spent some time outside the door apologising between bouts of laughter but he otherwise left his flatmate alone. Sherlock had called for John at one point, asking him to go to the shops to get some baby oil to hopefully wash the pictures off. John had obliged but from the cursing and whining coming from the bathroom, he perceived that it wasn’t doing much good.
Eventually it got dark and Sherlock came out from sulking in his room to flop on the couch.
“I can’t go outside. I can’t see anyone. You’re an idiot John.”
John just nodded morosely.
“I am terribly sorry Sherlock. I honestly don’t remember doing that.”
“I know you don’t John, but why a penis? Didn’t you grow out of that as a teenager?”
“Yeah, I thought so. But obviously not. Let’s just hope Lestrade doesn’t call with a case.”
“Don’t, John. You’ll jinx it!”
-O-O-O-O-
Sure enough, the next morning Sherlock’s phone woke them both up.
“What?” Sherlock barked down the phone.
“A case. In Islington.”
“I’m not coming.” The pout had returned and John sighed. He wrestled the phone out of Sherlock’s grip and pressed his ear to it.
“Sherlock’s feeling a bit under the weather. He has to stay home,” he told Lestrade.
“Well, okay then, sod couldn’t have been nicer about it could he? Alright. Bye.”
The dial tone sounded and John put the phone back on the bedside table. He then wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him in for a hug.
“I’m sorry love. I’m sure it will come off eventually.” Sherlock just sniffed in annoyance and tried to wriggle away.
“Oh no, none of that. I know just the thing to make you feel better.”
“I don’t want sex,” Sherlock said, sounding almost like a three year old who was trying to deny he was tired.
“I wasn’t suggesting sex,” John replied, even though he clearly was. Sherlock was too busy sulking to call him on his lie though. “How about a nice relaxing bath?”
Sherlock shook his head.
“You know you want to. I’ll even wash your hair for you,” John bribed, voice as sweet as honey.
“No. I don’t wanna.”
“Sherlock. You’re acting like a child. C’mon, have a nice bath and then we can watch some mindless telly.”
“Fine. But you have to use the expensive shampoo. And I want a massage too!”
-O-O-O-O-
Sherlock got his bath, and the sex did eventually happen and John found some army grade soap that while a little rough, did the job and got the writing off.
Sherlock still didn’t really forgive John but John makes sure to leave nice love letters whenever he’s drunk. On paper. Sherlock keeps them all in his drawer, John pretends not to notice. And Lestrade pretends not to notice when John stretches a little too much and reveals the writing on his stomach that says “Property of Sherlock Holmes” with a small arrow pointing towards the waistband of John’s trousers. Although he does share the little fact with Sally Donovan, who shares it with Anderson who in turn tells Dimmock…and you see how the story goes.
The End.