[ fanfiction ] SHERLOCK: An Honest Mistake (6/6)
Title: An Honest Mistake (Or: Five Arguments Sherlock and John Have Had, and One They Didn't) (6/6)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson.
Rating: G
Genre: Drama, humor. Bickering. Occasional angst, fluff.
Word Count: 615 (chapter); 1371 (entire).
Summary: In which Sherlock and John fight, and John has a tendency to storm off. Featuring a crashed funeral, an exploded corpse, ruined jumpers, and more.
Notes: A self-challenge. Each drabble/ficlet was inspired by one line from "An Honest Mistake", by The Bravery. (YouTube: here.)
Six: Domestic
i fuck up, and say these things out loud
"Look," John begins testily, setting Sherlock's coffee before him with an expressive clatter of china. "We've talked about this. I can deal with the hoovering and the laundry and the rest of it when we're on a case. You need to think, housework is a distraction, you're saving lives-fine. But when we're not on a case, you do not call me back from work to make you a cuppa! For God's sake, Sherlock, caffeine withdrawal is not a life-or-death medical emergency!"
"Is too," the detective replies vaguely, barely seeming to register John's exasperated sigh.
"Impossible. You are... impossible. I'll probably get sacked this time," he mutters, rubbing his hand over his face. He casts an exhausted eye over the living room. "Oh, for-What have you done with this room? Mrs Hudson's going to have a fit again."
"Don't see why it bothers her. As she repeatedly informs us, she is our landlady, not our housekeeper."
John rolls his eyes and says, mostly under his breath, knowing that Sherlock probably isn't listening anymore, "And I'm your flatmate, not your bloody wife."
To which the detective absently replies, "Of course you're not, dear."
It takes Sherlock five seconds for his brain to register the silence, and another three to catch up with his mouth. He blinks.
"I just said that aloud, didn't I," he says blankly, into the deafening silence.
The first thought to pop into his head is, Oh. Father used to say that. I've turned into my father. Not good. Must rectify. The second thought is, John will disapprove. Explosively. Prior experience suggests that an intense verbal altercation will ensue shortly, following which John will leave-possibly to return to work, more likely to sit in the park-and return shortly after dinner, if he returns at all. Must find someone else to do housework during period of time-likely a week-when John will refuse to do it in protest. Not Mrs Hudson. Molly? Lestrade? If desperate, homeless network might-
The noise that breaks the silence comes from John's general direction, but sounds... suspiciously like... a giggle.
No, not a giggle. A snicker? A chuckle? Sherlock is not well-versed in the nuances of laughter (for the most part extraneous, useless information), but he's fairly sure that whatever it is John's doing, he is swiftly devolving into a fit of hysterics.
"Oh, oh god," he says breathlessly, clutching at the back of his armchair. It really oughtn't be as funny as it is, John thinks, but it is, and some of it might be because it's true. All those memories of pestering Sherlock to eat or sleep, all those times he's cleaned up experiments or half-finished cups of coffee, all those nights of patching him up, of nagging at him to behave or clean up or stop pickpocketing Lestrade... John wheezes, trying to breathe and laugh at the same time and utterly failing when he sees the look on Sherlock's face.
"You're-Look at you! You're pou-pouting! I can't, oh, that hurts, ow, oh..." John braces, half-slumped, against his armchair, and tries to take a few deep, calming breaths.
"I don't understand," Sherlock says loudly, petulantly.
"Nothing. It's nothing. Sorry. Oh... That was a good laugh. Ah..."
Sherlock makes a frustrated noise. "I don't understand what was so funny."
John glances at him, feels the giggles climbing back up his throat. "Look, it's just-I mean, I am, are-aren't I? I'm-Oh, god, I'm Sherlock Holmes'-I'm your housewife, oh, I can't-it's too-"
And John can't continue, his body involuntarily curling over the arms clutched around his stomach, giggling-cackling-laughing more than a bit madly as Sherlock looks on, utterly bewildered.
one | two | three | four | five | six
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson.
Rating: G
Genre: Drama, humor. Bickering. Occasional angst, fluff.
Word Count: 615 (chapter); 1371 (entire).
Summary: In which Sherlock and John fight, and John has a tendency to storm off. Featuring a crashed funeral, an exploded corpse, ruined jumpers, and more.
Notes: A self-challenge. Each drabble/ficlet was inspired by one line from "An Honest Mistake", by The Bravery. (YouTube: here.)
Six: Domestic
i fuck up, and say these things out loud
"Look," John begins testily, setting Sherlock's coffee before him with an expressive clatter of china. "We've talked about this. I can deal with the hoovering and the laundry and the rest of it when we're on a case. You need to think, housework is a distraction, you're saving lives-fine. But when we're not on a case, you do not call me back from work to make you a cuppa! For God's sake, Sherlock, caffeine withdrawal is not a life-or-death medical emergency!"
"Is too," the detective replies vaguely, barely seeming to register John's exasperated sigh.
"Impossible. You are... impossible. I'll probably get sacked this time," he mutters, rubbing his hand over his face. He casts an exhausted eye over the living room. "Oh, for-What have you done with this room? Mrs Hudson's going to have a fit again."
"Don't see why it bothers her. As she repeatedly informs us, she is our landlady, not our housekeeper."
John rolls his eyes and says, mostly under his breath, knowing that Sherlock probably isn't listening anymore, "And I'm your flatmate, not your bloody wife."
To which the detective absently replies, "Of course you're not, dear."
It takes Sherlock five seconds for his brain to register the silence, and another three to catch up with his mouth. He blinks.
"I just said that aloud, didn't I," he says blankly, into the deafening silence.
The first thought to pop into his head is, Oh. Father used to say that. I've turned into my father. Not good. Must rectify. The second thought is, John will disapprove. Explosively. Prior experience suggests that an intense verbal altercation will ensue shortly, following which John will leave-possibly to return to work, more likely to sit in the park-and return shortly after dinner, if he returns at all. Must find someone else to do housework during period of time-likely a week-when John will refuse to do it in protest. Not Mrs Hudson. Molly? Lestrade? If desperate, homeless network might-
The noise that breaks the silence comes from John's general direction, but sounds... suspiciously like... a giggle.
No, not a giggle. A snicker? A chuckle? Sherlock is not well-versed in the nuances of laughter (for the most part extraneous, useless information), but he's fairly sure that whatever it is John's doing, he is swiftly devolving into a fit of hysterics.
"Oh, oh god," he says breathlessly, clutching at the back of his armchair. It really oughtn't be as funny as it is, John thinks, but it is, and some of it might be because it's true. All those memories of pestering Sherlock to eat or sleep, all those times he's cleaned up experiments or half-finished cups of coffee, all those nights of patching him up, of nagging at him to behave or clean up or stop pickpocketing Lestrade... John wheezes, trying to breathe and laugh at the same time and utterly failing when he sees the look on Sherlock's face.
"You're-Look at you! You're pou-pouting! I can't, oh, that hurts, ow, oh..." John braces, half-slumped, against his armchair, and tries to take a few deep, calming breaths.
"I don't understand," Sherlock says loudly, petulantly.
"Nothing. It's nothing. Sorry. Oh... That was a good laugh. Ah..."
Sherlock makes a frustrated noise. "I don't understand what was so funny."
John glances at him, feels the giggles climbing back up his throat. "Look, it's just-I mean, I am, are-aren't I? I'm-Oh, god, I'm Sherlock Holmes'-I'm your housewife, oh, I can't-it's too-"
And John can't continue, his body involuntarily curling over the arms clutched around his stomach, giggling-cackling-laughing more than a bit madly as Sherlock looks on, utterly bewildered.
one | two | three | four | five | six