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John. Come into the Kitchen. Now. -SH
It’s 3 bloody AM, Sherlock. -JW
I require your assistance. -SH
Are you going to make me drink something questionable again? -JW
“FOR CHRIST’S SAKE GET IN HERE,” Sherlock yelled from the kitchen. John jumped out of bed when he heard Sherlock’s voice. Something about it seemed.. off. Frightened?
He was down the stairs in an instant, switching on lights as he went, and skidded to a halt in the kitchen. He glanced around wildly, looking for Sherlock.
“Up here, John.” whispered Sherlock, who had perched himself on top of the refrigerator. ITw really wasn’t a comfortable place to be, but he had deduced it to be the safest place from... that. He looked pleadingly at John, then pointedly at the far corner of the kitchen; next to the stove. “It’s over there.”
John looked up to where sherlock had managed to get himself and willed himself not to think about how his flatmate had climbed up there. “God, I hate you sometimes.” He walked to the corner of the room cautiously; with Sherlock around, it could literally be anything-- he stopped dead.
“Really, Sherlock? That?” He asked, turning to Sherlock to scold him. Unfortunately, John lost control of himself very quickly at the sight of the detective cowering close to the wall on top of their refrigerator and doubled over laughing.
“This is serious, John,” Sherlock pouted and threw a rolled up newspaper at John. “Now kill it, please.”
John took a moment to enjoy Sherlock’s moment of weakness, sitting down at the table and just looking back and forth between his flatmate and the tiny spider lurking next to their stove. Sherlock made a noise of protest, and John smiled.
“The Great Sherlock Holmes is afraid of a bug.”
“Spiders aren’t bugs, John. They’re arachnids. Take care of it.”
John sighed and got up, still smiling. He walked to the corner of the room with his newspaper, swiftly killed the offending spider, and tossed it in the bin with a tissue.
“Alright,” He said, “It’s gone.”
Sherlock crept to the front of the fridge cautiously, peering at John. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. It’s dead in the bin.”
“Thank you, John,” Sherlock breathed, instantly relaxing.
John stared up at him, a little perplexed but simultaneously quite entertained.
“It was just a bug, Sherlock.”
“It was hideous.... Looked just like Mycroft,” The Man on the Fridge added.
John gave him his best concerned look, “So you’re afraid of your brother?” he teased.
“Don’t be stupid.” Snapped sherlock, adjusting his long legs.
John giggled a little more and sat back down at the table, now reading the newspaper Sherlock had provided him with for bug-squashing. It was last month’s paper.
“Scared of bugs,” he mumbled (half to himself)
Sherlock glared down at him, obviously fed-up. “Yes, fine! I don’t like bugs! Are you quite satisfied?”
John grinned, “A little. I just thought you didn’t fear anything, let alone arachnids,” John corrected him.
Sherlock curled up into a moody ball with his back to john, grumbling angrily. They spent several minutes like that: John reading the paper at the table, Sherlock still on the fridge, shifting every once in a while into a more comfortable arrangement of long limbs, curly hair, and attitude. Soon, John got up to leave the room. Sherlock stopped him.
“John?” he called down.
John turned and looked up, he almost couldn’t see sherlock but for a little bit of his hair hanging over the edge of their refrigerator. “What is it? I’d like to get back to bed now.”
“...I’m stuck,” Sherlock murmured.
John lost it again. Tears ran down his face as he tried to control the mad laughter escaping him. He finally caught his breath and walked over to Sherlock, reaching up.
“Come on, mate. Take my hand.”
Sherlock looked incredulously down at him. “John, you don’t actually intend to catch me in your arms like some helpless maid?”
“Actually, that’s exactly what I intend to do. Come on, Princess.” He offered his other hand and smiled up at Sherlock, still chuckling a little.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, frowning. He briefly considered staying up on the fridge-- spending the night up there, ANYTHING that didn’t involve him accepting his role as Refrigerator Princess. His legs gave a protesting twinge at the thought and the next thing he knew, he had taken John’s hands in his own.
With a little grunt, John pulled Sherlock right off the edge of the fridge. Sherlock flailed in the air (ever the dramatic type) and grabbed John with both arms as soon as he was able, thwarting John’s plans for a graceful landing as they both crashed to the floor.
John opened one eye carefully, wincing as his bad shoulder throbbed against the cold linoleum tile. He shifted his arm, and realized that it was wrapped around Sherlock, who was splayed on top of him, gazing down with a curious expression.
“Alright, John?”
John did a quick roll call, flexing all his limbs and rotating his joints minutely. Everything checked out okay, though his shoulder was a bit sore (What else is new?)
“er... yes. I’m fine. You?”
“Of course. I had a very soft landing.” Sherlock smiled just a little and added, “Thank you, John.”
John sighed and just laid there. He contemplated falling asleep right there on the floor. Sherlock made for an astonishingly sufficient blanket. He closed his eyes, but could feel Sherlock still staring at him, so he opened them again-- Yep. Icy blue eyes, he thought.
“What?”
“You were thinking about sleeping like this.” Sherlock stated, still staring at him.
“So?”
“So it would be bad for your shoulder. I don’t need a cripple following me around London.”
At that, Sherlock rose to his knees next to Watson and picked him up off the floor. Wasting no time, Sherlock slung him indelicately over his shoulder, heading for the stairs.
“What the bloody Hell are you doing!?” Clamored John, who was cooperating a little too nicely for someone opposed to being carried in such a way.
“Quiet down, Princess.” Chided Sherlock as they reached the top of the stairs. They made their way to John’s room slowly, partially because sherlock enjoyed hearing John cuss like that, and partially because he didn’t want to accidentally bump John against any walls. They bloke was plenty bruised up as it was.
Sherlock laid John down surprisingly gently, on his good shoulder. He untied his dressing gown and hung it on it’s hook, then he pulled the covers up, over his friend. John exhaled and snuggled down into the sheets, closing his eyes gratefully.
“Thanks, ‘lock,” he murmured as he drifted off. Sherlock watched him sleep for a moment before moving to get up.
“Shlock.”
Sherlock stared at John (for the millionth time today). he had his arm extended toward Sherlock and his eyes very slightly open.
“Yes?” He replied.
“Blanket.”
“You have a blank--guhhh!” John grabbed his arm and pulled him down into the bed with him, scooting backwards and wrapping Sherlock’s arm around him. He wouldn’t let go. Sherlock sputtered.
“John! I hardly think you’re aware of your actions at the moment! You may have hit your head. Do you hear me, John??” The only reply he got was an angry grunt and a tug on his arm. Sherlock gave up and laid down next to him, holding john close to his chest as they both fell into a peaceful sleep.