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It was a cold, dreary Wednesday afternoon at 221b Baker Street. It had been two weeks since John Watson and Sherlock Holmes’ last case—rather uninteresting, Sherlock had said, it was a suicide after all that—and John had been desperately finding ways to keep Sherlock occupied. It wasn’t easy to entertain a genius. The closest he’d gotten was putting on a game show which Sherlock switched off after an hour (“I knew all the answers. Boring.”, he had said) and nothing could ever quite compare to the scent of a triple homicide in the morning for Sherlock. The only thing between Sherlock and blasting another couple holes through Mrs Hudson’s wall was, quite literally, Mrs Hudson. She was standing in front of Sherlock right now. John watched from his chair.
Sherlock tucks his legs to his chest and looks up at Mrs Hudson from his chair. John couldn’t quite figure out what they were doing. They seemed to be staring at eachother, almost like wolves caught in the wild. It would be funny if it wasn’t kind of concerning. He would have taken out his phone and sent a photo to Lestrade if it weren’t for the fact that he was busy posting on his blog. He was writing up the previous case details. He calls,
“Synonym for stabbed?”
The response is almost instant. “Skewered. Or spear, if that’s what works better.”, Sherlock replies, not breaking eye contact with Mrs Hudson. John nods and mutters a quick thanks before continuing to type.
After a few minutes of the staring, John was getting tired of it. There wasn’t anything to do, and whilst he doesn’t see himself as the same level of adrenaline junkie as Sherlock, he didn’t love the idea of a quiet weekday. He had never been able to get used to the absolute and utter repetitive nature and boringness of an average civilian life — he supposes this must be the reason he’s with Sherlock — and so this unnerving silence was bothering him.
He let his mind wander for a bit, thinking back to some video he had seen a while back. He and Sherlock were getting older, that was for sure, and so there really was no reason for him to be online. He was, anyway. He’d been promoting the blog on TikTok. He didn’t scroll much, he found it irrelevant to him most of the time anyway, and Sherlock insisted the only good “new thing” was Monster Energy. John could tell it was essentially a replacement for the drugs, but it’s probably less damaging, so… he reckons it’s fine. His stomach growled.
And then he remembered the video!
There was a video he had seen while scrolling the other day, where this… guy, had gone up to his father, and said “I’m so hungry I could eat…” and then names of his ex-classmates.
Well.
There’s only so much to do on a raining afternoon.
“I’m so hungry I could eat Mycroft Holmes.”
Silence. Dead silence. For a good few seconds.
Then a small laugh from Mrs Hudson and a slow turn of Sherlock’s head.
“What… did you just say?”, Sherlock said, his jaw tight.
Oh yes. This was going to be fun, John could tell. He smirked, and continued;
“I’m so hungry I could eat Greg Lestrade.”
“Fuck off.”, Sherlock says, groaning and rubbing his forehead, as he stands up out of his chair. John was almost surprised, Sherlock hasn’t left the chair all day.
John’s grin widens and he finishes off the cherry on the cake.
“I’m so hungry, I could eat… Jim Moriarty.”
Sherlock glares at John, before walking to his room, calling out as he leaves. “No. Not doing this today.”
John laughs, and yells out to him; “Babe, come on…”
“Do not call me babe when I’m mad at you.” Sherlock replies, with a groan. John was laughing too hard to think for a second that Sherlock’s annoyance was real.
“Sherlock, come on, don’t be childish. You’re fine. I’m kidding.”, John says, still smiling. He gets up and walks to Sherlock’s room — he doesn’t understand why there’s still a distinction, Sherlock usually shares his bed anyway — and leans against the doorframe. Sherlock had already sat on the bed, and he shakes his head.
“Not funny, John.”, he says, his voice surprisingly sincere. John stops laughing almost instantly, and sits down next to Sherlock, putting his hand up to his curly, silky locks.
“I’m sorry. Did— did I actually upset you, Sherl?”, John asks, worried, rubbing Sherlock’s back. He always did dote on Sherlock. Sherlock shakes his head, not replying. John sighs and presses a kiss to his jaw. “Sherlock… I’m sorry… I didn’t realise it— you— we never really talked about it. I’m sorry.”
Sherlock finally speaks up. “I know. It’s not your fault I disappeared for two years. I don’t really want to talk about it.”
John nods, a little confused but still understanding. “Uh huh… so, what, that was just a moment of… frustration?”
Sherlock sighs and shakes his head. “No. I mean I don’t want to talk about it. At all.”, He explains. John lets out a quiet “ah” sound and rests his forehead against his skin.
“…Right. I’m sorry.”, He apologises again, hoping they could put this behind them and go on a walk. Or something. Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He gets alarmed again.
“…Sherl?”
Nothing.
“…Sherlock?…”
No reply.
“Babe?…”
Still nothing. And then a stifled snicker and a small smirk.
“John?”, Sherlock pipes up.
“Yes?” John replies instantly.
“I’m so hungry I could eat Charles Magnussen.”
A pillow very quickly finds its way to Sherlock’s face and the two dissolve into fits of laughter.
“You’re a right git.”
“Piss off.”
“Love you.”
“I love you too, Sherlock.”