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There were numerous people in John Watson’s life that believed the man to be partially insane.
Hell, on some days he even agreed with them.
They could not understand how he could manage to not only live, but also work together with an entity such as Sherlock Holmes. Everyone knew Holmes was an insufferable, self-centered bastard with no regard for thoughts and feelings of those surrounding him, unless it was for his own use at the whim. He did not respect boundaries, laws and norms, making it difficult not only to catch up with his jet-speed process of thoughts but also to simply exist in his general proximity without feeling some degree of discomfort. Nobody really wanted to be around him for more than was absolutely necessary - and a few exceptions of that rule did not seem to want to extend their stay for too long anyway.
Mycroft turned his back to him each time his nerves were fried up enough. Mrs Hudson usually left when there was nothing more to do inside the flat. Lestrade resigned after his thoughts were ignored for long enough for the man to get irritated. Molly eventually got silent after what she felt was roughly shoved away.
So yes, obviously, nobody wanted to exist in Sherlock Holmes’ world.
That was what people thought - and the man himself too, most of the time.
Except, John begged to differ, as he yawned, the morning sun of a rare sunny day in London hitting his skin. There was, actually, nothing more comforting than Sherlock Holmes’ presence and he would fight anyone who tried to challenge him on that opinion. Were he in the right mood, obviously.
John blinked slowly, stretching his hands over his head, as he came into the kitchen to prepare their usual morning tea. Sometimes, if both of them slept in until late morning, the tea would be already made by Mrs Hudson, but today he woke up early enough and let himself start a day with a well-known, calming routine.
He looked sleepily around the kitchen, leaning back into the counter as he waited for the water to boil, staring at the table filled with pots, vials, microscope, some organic pieces which he long ago had got used not to dwell into too much for his own sanity’s sake, some metal medical instruments, newspapers from between a week to a five years ago, cutlery, an empty beer can, a human eyeball, about five empty cups and John’s own notebook and pen.
He knew all those items as the back of his own pockets, but looking at them brought him some unusual sense of calm and peace of mind. The mess was so clearly Sherlock it made something inside him feel all warm, though he would never admit it outloud - then he’d have to agree with Sherlock describing him as “a romantic soul”, and that would not do. Getting comforted by sprawled medical devices and mess was something that appeared ridiculous even is his own head, so he snorted.
“The voices are talking?”
John’s smile broadened at the sound of a familiar, deep baritone.
“Yes, about you getting your royal arse out of your bed before eight AM.”
Water started boiling and John turned to turn the kettle off, then poured the water into two already prepared cups.
He liked to exist in this reality and nobody could tell him otherwise.
-
John came back from the Bart’s exhausted to an end.
Sudden emergency came up, in the form of his patient fainting right before the end of his shift, and due to the fact that it was early summer and medical personnel had been taking their summer leaves gratuitously and there was not enough doctors in the building (aside from the fact that there was usually not enough doctors in general) John had to take care of the matter until some other tired medic could take custody of it.
He was almost two and a half hours later than he usually would be and his phone was dead, as it had not been charged properly during the previous night, making him leave with about twenty percent in the early morning. Hunger didn’t matter, he only longed to go to his bedroom and get his fair share of sleep, screw shower and changing clothes.
“You are late,” if he had enough energy John would say something like no shit Sherlock probably, but he was definitely not in the right mood for bickering. And doing anything else, actually.”
“‘Ware,” he muttered, getting out of his shoes and dragging leg after leg through the living room, which felt like one of the most difficult things he had had done in his entire lifetime.
Sherlock grabbed his sleeve and John growled, disgruntled. Bright blue eyes looked at him intensely but he didn’t have enough mind power nor motivation to interpret that look. Silence extended for quite some time, enough for John’s annoyment to rise accordingly.
“What?”
His roommate let go of his sleeve at the question.
“Unsatisfying day at work?”
“You could say that,” John shrugged, passing by the other to get to the stairs leading to his own room. Halfway to it, he was stopped once again.
“Sherlock, for the king of England’s sake…”
“You did not eat.”
Not a fact, rather a statement. John just grunted in answer, attempting to once again go past the taller man and his attempt was stopped once more, this time by the gentle grab on his wrist, only to get dragged away from the staircase to the middle of the living room, then pushed on the coach. There was not enough energy and will inside John to protest, so he just stayed there, momentarily lying down on the not-very-soft piece of furniture. It didn’t matter.
“G’ night,” he muttered.
“You are not going to sleep yet. Wait until you eat.”
As if John would freaking listen. His mind drifted away quickly into comfortable darkness to let itself become enveloped by it tightly, securely… only to be pushed out of it forcefully before he managed to truly settle into it.
“‘Lock, bloody stop it. Want to sleep.”
John’s annoyment arose immediately, as he blinked angrily at the man hovering over himself with an unreadable expression.
“I made you tea,” he said, pointing to a small coffee table which seemed to be closer to the couch than it usually was. Sherlock had to move it some time between when John had fallen asleep and woke up. China stood there, steam coming steadily out of the teapot. English breakfast, apparently recommended also in the evening.
“Drink it and wait,” ordered Sherlock as he turned back around, going again into the kitchen.
John stared blankly at the ceiling, observing spiders’ webs in the corners and pondering falling asleep again, but at this point he deduced it would be pointless - his madman of a flatmate would not let him until he did what he was told. He sighed deeply and straightened out, eyes still half-closed, and blindly took a cup of tea from the table and poured inside it the tea, testing it with the verge of his tongue. Not too intense, no sugar, perfect. Some part of the annoyment coiling inside him dissolved.
He sipped the tea mindlessly, at some point realizing he had forgotten to take off his socks, and he slid them off on the floor. Leaving a mess was generally Sherlock’s domain, but this time he did not care.
In his half dozed-out state he didn’t know how much time exactly had passed, when two french toasts with beans on the side appeared before him. Realizing that, despite his previous dismissal, his stomach seemed to crave for some tasty gasoline, he put the nearly empty cup on the table and took to eating what was given to him. He hummed contentedly, chewing on the well-fried toast.
The room was silent, except for John’s eating sounds and it was at that moment he became aware he was not, after all, alone. Somewhen before, awareness of Sherlock’s presence had disappeared from his mind.
As he opened his eyes for real this time, John realized that an armchair on the other end of the room was occupied, the other man staring at him as he tended to do at a particularly puzzling piece of evidence. John didn’t want to dwell into that look too much at the moment, so he just stared back and raised the corners of his mouth slightly.
“Thanks, mate.”
Sherlock just nodded, apparently not in a mood for talking. Or for anything else, for that matter, with an exception of observing John. Blonde was well-used to ignoring other’s quirks at that point, thus it didn’t bother him. More, it felt familiar and comforting to be observed by the other, in their living room, just sharing the space on this another mundane day of many, when they were not chasing another crazed murderer on the streets of London.
He put an empty plate on the table then laid on the cough once again, sated after a satisfying meal and closed his eyes. He drifted off for quite some time, to the sound of cars passing by the street outside and another breathing pattern in the room, eventually curling into a comfortable position and warming his feet under a cushion. He frowned after a quarter or two passed, wondering why he still balanced on this thin border between sleep and reality.
It became apparent that, despite it being a warm summer day, he lacked a blanket to evenly warm his body anyway. He curled into a tighter ball, disgruntled, knowing he did not want to get up to get one from his room at this point. Lying down was way too comfortable to give it up.
He registered steps coming his way, then his torso got pushed a bit more into the back of the couch as another body settled behind him. John stiffened at first, surprised by the gesture, then quickly relaxed into Sherlock’s warmth, feeling as if something switched inside him. Sleep would finally take him, it was a fact.
John was not sure if he had actually said “thank you” or if he just rolled over the words inside his head, but he was convinced that he did not dream of the long limbs wounding around his arms and stomach securely.
Yes, people could say whatever they bloody wanted about John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, but the very men interested were not particularly worried about it.