Ficlet: A Kind Gesture
Title: A Kind Gesture
Pairing: Sherlock/John, established relationship
Rating: PG-13(for language)
Word Count: about 1500
Warnings: None. Just massive amounts of fluff and some wallpaper abuse.
Spoilers: non-plot related spoiler for TGG
Summary: Sherlock makes a kind gesture which John doesn't take too well.
Author's Notes: Fill for writers' group Kinky Thursday. Prompt was for "something romantic." Also, I may have taken liberties with how long it actually takes to accomplish some DIY projects.
Disclaimer: I don't own these guys. I'm just borrowing them for awhile.
John trudged up the stairs, socks squelching in his soaked shoes. He'd been giving some thought to actually investing in a good pair of wellies. Umbrellas only kept your top half-dry. God, Harry was right, he really was turning into their grandfather. As he climbed the last step in his dripping shoes, though, he decided he didn't care. He hated being wet like this. He wanted to change into dry pyjamas, eat his dinner, and watch telly while he soaked up the heat from the fire.
He opened the door into the flat without even looking around. Just stopped right inside the door to pull off his wet shoes and socks. So, when Sherlock announced, "Oh good! You're home!" from about 10 inches behind his back, John nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Christ, Sherlock! How many times have I asked you not to do that? Don't sneak up on me like that."
"Yes, yes. Sorry. I'm just glad you're home."
Immediately wary, John asked, "Why?"
"Why am I glad you're home? I'm injured, John. Should I not miss you while you're gone? Is that not what people do when they're in love? Count the minutes until they can be together again?" Sherlock asked with a smile playing about his lips. The man really was in a very good mood this evening. Which set all of John's alarm bells ringing.
"Yes, well. If we're going to play it that way, then 'Honey, I'm home. What's for dinner?'"
The smile playing around Sherlock's mouth decided to get to business, and a true grin spread across the man's face. The grin that made lines around his eyes. John loved that grin more than a bit. He felt his own face responding to it in kind.
"Whatever you would like, dear. I can phone up any of your choice of a dozen fine eating establishments. I'm a culinary genius like that. But stop worrying about your lovely, little tummy for a moment and open your eyes, John."
"My eyes are open. What am I suppose to be seeing? Did you get your hair done? Lose weight?"
That earned him a chuckle and a swift kiss. Then Sherlock stepped back and swung around to gesture at their living room with a broad sweep of his arm.
"Ta-dah! I've been very busy today, Dr. Watson."
He wasn't lying. He had been. Because the living room John was looking at was a very different one from the one he'd left this morning. Sherlock had actually taken down the horrible wallpaper, repaired the bullet holes, and put a coat of magnolia paint over the whole surface. John just stood there, literally speechless.
"I noticed how you were always making comments about the busy pattern of the paper and the bullet holes. Warning me not to make anymore holes or spray paint anything else. Clearly you hated the paper and holes, so I got rid of them. Fixed it all and put up a blank slate, so to speak. I wasn't sure if you'd want an actual color on the walls, but you can pick something out later if the magnolia is too bland."
"You...you took down the wallpaper," it wasn't really a question.
"Yeees."
"And repaired the bullet holes."
"Yes, John. Clearly."
And, John should have noticed. Should have noticed the chemical smell when he first walked in, the change in the light in the room. Perhaps if he had, he could have prepared himself a bit better. Gotten control of his features and his thoughts before Sherlock got a handle on them. But he hadn't, so Sherlock did.
"You don't like it."
"No, no. Sherlock, I do. I'm just...just surprised. I didn't expect this. This might be the absolute last thing I ever expected you to do."
"I am capable of being kind, John. I thought you would appreciate this." John could see the man shutting down before his eyes. See the face smoothing out, the eyes closing off.
"Sherlock, no. Stop. Look, I do like it. I do, really. It's lovely. And the magnolia's fine. And I can't even see where the holes were." And he really couldn't. Which was actually the problem. Thing was, as much as he'd made remarks about the awful wallpaper, about the damn holes and the smiley face, he'd secretly loved it all. He'd never admitted to anyone how often he'd come home to that absurd yellow face and smiled right back at it. How when he thought of "home" in his mind, he thought of their sofa and their awful throw-pillows and that horrendous wall. He'd never let on to Sherlock, hadn't wanted to encourage the man to do any further damage. But he'd loved that fucking wall. His heart was breaking a little bit as he looked at the hateful magnolia starkness that was now in its place.
"You don't like it. You're lying. I can see that you're lying. I'm not sure why you even bother. How you think that you can lie to me, and I won't be able to tell. It's beyond you, John. You really shouldn't try," Sherlock sneered. And John knew why. Knew it was coming from the man's hurt. He really was spectacularly stunted in some ways emotionally, so his reaction to being hurt was often to hurt back. And his best weapon was always his sharp tongue. John didn't even know how to reply, though, because Sherlock was right. He was lying, and Sherlock could tell.
John walked over to the wall, brushed his fingers over the spots where his memory told him the holes had been, and cursed himself for being so stupidly sentimental. The man he loved, a man who was not given to gestures of affection, had done this. Had done this to please him. He shook his head and told himself to forget about that ridiculous paper and yellow paint. Sherlock had done this work for him, and that meant so much more in the scheme of things.
John, turned back to look at Sherlock. He had his arms crossed over his chest, had his head turned to the left looking out the window. John stepped up to him, put one hand on his hip and the other on his jaw. Used that hand to turn Sherlock's head back to face him.
"Sherlock, please. Please don't be upset. I...I was just really surprised. But I'm touched, Sherlock Holmes. I'm truly touched that you would do this. For me." With that he stood up on his toes to give the taller man a kiss on his lips.
As he settled back flat on his feet, he brushed his thumb over one of those sharp cheekbones and endured Sherlock's inspection. Sherlock's piercing gaze moved over his face, looked deeply into his eyes like he could somehow see right into John's brain. Hell, maybe he could. But whatever he saw seemed to finally satisfy him. He nodded once and leaned down to give John a kiss in turn.
"All right, then. Indian or Chinese, John?" he asked as he spun on his heel and headed toward the drawer full of takeout menus they kept in the kitchen.
John smiled at his back and gave one last glance back at the wall. "Indian, I think. Naan sounds really good right about now."
___________________________________________
The next day found John heading back up the stairs at 221B. Same wet shoes, same squelching socks, same John Watson mumbling about wellies and his grandfather. However, before he got to the door of their flat, he noticed the smell. The chemical smell that had gotten stronger since yesterday. That wasn't right, was it? What the hell?
He pushed open the door and stopped, dumbstruck, in the doorway.
Sherlock looked up from his laptop where he was perched in his chair. "Close your mouth, John. You'll catch flies," he drawled.
But John just kept standing there, blinking. He rubbed his eyes, seriously thought about pinching himself to see if he was dreaming. Because it was back. His horrible, horrendous, ugly, wonderful wall was back. The same wallpaper, the same bullet holes, the same insane smiley face.
He looked over at Sherlock who was staring at him intently. After a few moments of intense examination, the man finally smiled. His eye-crinkler again. "You like it. I decided magnolia just didn't suit. We're not really the magnolia sort, are we? I think I thought you were, but that was a mistake, wasn't it? There's always one little thing," he said, echoing a conversation they'd had long ago.
"No, no we're not magnolia," John managed after he'd swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat. "I don't know what we are," he continued, gesturing at the wall. "We're strange and damaged and completely abnormal. But I sort of like that about us. I like to think we have an odd sort of beauty."
"Yes. Yes, we do," Sherlock agreed as he rose and moved over behind John then wrapped his arms around his smaller form. Both of them stood looking at their wall for awhile.
"We'll have to sleep upstairs tonight, of course," Sherlock finally said, breaking the comfortable silence. "The weather kept me from opening the windows to dispel the fumes. Or we can stay down here and get sky high. It's really up to you."
John just laughed and leaned his head back against Sherlock's shoulder. It felt good to be home.
Pairing: Sherlock/John, established relationship
Rating: PG-13(for language)
Word Count: about 1500
Warnings: None. Just massive amounts of fluff and some wallpaper abuse.
Spoilers: non-plot related spoiler for TGG
Summary: Sherlock makes a kind gesture which John doesn't take too well.
Author's Notes: Fill for writers' group Kinky Thursday. Prompt was for "something romantic." Also, I may have taken liberties with how long it actually takes to accomplish some DIY projects.
Disclaimer: I don't own these guys. I'm just borrowing them for awhile.
John trudged up the stairs, socks squelching in his soaked shoes. He'd been giving some thought to actually investing in a good pair of wellies. Umbrellas only kept your top half-dry. God, Harry was right, he really was turning into their grandfather. As he climbed the last step in his dripping shoes, though, he decided he didn't care. He hated being wet like this. He wanted to change into dry pyjamas, eat his dinner, and watch telly while he soaked up the heat from the fire.
He opened the door into the flat without even looking around. Just stopped right inside the door to pull off his wet shoes and socks. So, when Sherlock announced, "Oh good! You're home!" from about 10 inches behind his back, John nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Christ, Sherlock! How many times have I asked you not to do that? Don't sneak up on me like that."
"Yes, yes. Sorry. I'm just glad you're home."
Immediately wary, John asked, "Why?"
"Why am I glad you're home? I'm injured, John. Should I not miss you while you're gone? Is that not what people do when they're in love? Count the minutes until they can be together again?" Sherlock asked with a smile playing about his lips. The man really was in a very good mood this evening. Which set all of John's alarm bells ringing.
"Yes, well. If we're going to play it that way, then 'Honey, I'm home. What's for dinner?'"
The smile playing around Sherlock's mouth decided to get to business, and a true grin spread across the man's face. The grin that made lines around his eyes. John loved that grin more than a bit. He felt his own face responding to it in kind.
"Whatever you would like, dear. I can phone up any of your choice of a dozen fine eating establishments. I'm a culinary genius like that. But stop worrying about your lovely, little tummy for a moment and open your eyes, John."
"My eyes are open. What am I suppose to be seeing? Did you get your hair done? Lose weight?"
That earned him a chuckle and a swift kiss. Then Sherlock stepped back and swung around to gesture at their living room with a broad sweep of his arm.
"Ta-dah! I've been very busy today, Dr. Watson."
He wasn't lying. He had been. Because the living room John was looking at was a very different one from the one he'd left this morning. Sherlock had actually taken down the horrible wallpaper, repaired the bullet holes, and put a coat of magnolia paint over the whole surface. John just stood there, literally speechless.
"I noticed how you were always making comments about the busy pattern of the paper and the bullet holes. Warning me not to make anymore holes or spray paint anything else. Clearly you hated the paper and holes, so I got rid of them. Fixed it all and put up a blank slate, so to speak. I wasn't sure if you'd want an actual color on the walls, but you can pick something out later if the magnolia is too bland."
"You...you took down the wallpaper," it wasn't really a question.
"Yeees."
"And repaired the bullet holes."
"Yes, John. Clearly."
And, John should have noticed. Should have noticed the chemical smell when he first walked in, the change in the light in the room. Perhaps if he had, he could have prepared himself a bit better. Gotten control of his features and his thoughts before Sherlock got a handle on them. But he hadn't, so Sherlock did.
"You don't like it."
"No, no. Sherlock, I do. I'm just...just surprised. I didn't expect this. This might be the absolute last thing I ever expected you to do."
"I am capable of being kind, John. I thought you would appreciate this." John could see the man shutting down before his eyes. See the face smoothing out, the eyes closing off.
"Sherlock, no. Stop. Look, I do like it. I do, really. It's lovely. And the magnolia's fine. And I can't even see where the holes were." And he really couldn't. Which was actually the problem. Thing was, as much as he'd made remarks about the awful wallpaper, about the damn holes and the smiley face, he'd secretly loved it all. He'd never admitted to anyone how often he'd come home to that absurd yellow face and smiled right back at it. How when he thought of "home" in his mind, he thought of their sofa and their awful throw-pillows and that horrendous wall. He'd never let on to Sherlock, hadn't wanted to encourage the man to do any further damage. But he'd loved that fucking wall. His heart was breaking a little bit as he looked at the hateful magnolia starkness that was now in its place.
"You don't like it. You're lying. I can see that you're lying. I'm not sure why you even bother. How you think that you can lie to me, and I won't be able to tell. It's beyond you, John. You really shouldn't try," Sherlock sneered. And John knew why. Knew it was coming from the man's hurt. He really was spectacularly stunted in some ways emotionally, so his reaction to being hurt was often to hurt back. And his best weapon was always his sharp tongue. John didn't even know how to reply, though, because Sherlock was right. He was lying, and Sherlock could tell.
John walked over to the wall, brushed his fingers over the spots where his memory told him the holes had been, and cursed himself for being so stupidly sentimental. The man he loved, a man who was not given to gestures of affection, had done this. Had done this to please him. He shook his head and told himself to forget about that ridiculous paper and yellow paint. Sherlock had done this work for him, and that meant so much more in the scheme of things.
John, turned back to look at Sherlock. He had his arms crossed over his chest, had his head turned to the left looking out the window. John stepped up to him, put one hand on his hip and the other on his jaw. Used that hand to turn Sherlock's head back to face him.
"Sherlock, please. Please don't be upset. I...I was just really surprised. But I'm touched, Sherlock Holmes. I'm truly touched that you would do this. For me." With that he stood up on his toes to give the taller man a kiss on his lips.
As he settled back flat on his feet, he brushed his thumb over one of those sharp cheekbones and endured Sherlock's inspection. Sherlock's piercing gaze moved over his face, looked deeply into his eyes like he could somehow see right into John's brain. Hell, maybe he could. But whatever he saw seemed to finally satisfy him. He nodded once and leaned down to give John a kiss in turn.
"All right, then. Indian or Chinese, John?" he asked as he spun on his heel and headed toward the drawer full of takeout menus they kept in the kitchen.
John smiled at his back and gave one last glance back at the wall. "Indian, I think. Naan sounds really good right about now."
___________________________________________
The next day found John heading back up the stairs at 221B. Same wet shoes, same squelching socks, same John Watson mumbling about wellies and his grandfather. However, before he got to the door of their flat, he noticed the smell. The chemical smell that had gotten stronger since yesterday. That wasn't right, was it? What the hell?
He pushed open the door and stopped, dumbstruck, in the doorway.
Sherlock looked up from his laptop where he was perched in his chair. "Close your mouth, John. You'll catch flies," he drawled.
But John just kept standing there, blinking. He rubbed his eyes, seriously thought about pinching himself to see if he was dreaming. Because it was back. His horrible, horrendous, ugly, wonderful wall was back. The same wallpaper, the same bullet holes, the same insane smiley face.
He looked over at Sherlock who was staring at him intently. After a few moments of intense examination, the man finally smiled. His eye-crinkler again. "You like it. I decided magnolia just didn't suit. We're not really the magnolia sort, are we? I think I thought you were, but that was a mistake, wasn't it? There's always one little thing," he said, echoing a conversation they'd had long ago.
"No, no we're not magnolia," John managed after he'd swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat. "I don't know what we are," he continued, gesturing at the wall. "We're strange and damaged and completely abnormal. But I sort of like that about us. I like to think we have an odd sort of beauty."
"Yes. Yes, we do," Sherlock agreed as he rose and moved over behind John then wrapped his arms around his smaller form. Both of them stood looking at their wall for awhile.
"We'll have to sleep upstairs tonight, of course," Sherlock finally said, breaking the comfortable silence. "The weather kept me from opening the windows to dispel the fumes. Or we can stay down here and get sky high. It's really up to you."
John just laughed and leaned his head back against Sherlock's shoulder. It felt good to be home.