Chapter Text
“Hey there pod-pals, and welcome to part two of- oh, hang on my phone’s ringing: Mum. I’ll edit that out.”
Replacing the microphone in his hand with his mobile, John slid the glowing green circle on the screen to the right and answered:
“Hi mum, you all right” He began, attempting to bury his frustration at being interrupted - it had already been a bad enough case without him being seemingly unable to even introduce it.
“Oh, hiya love. How is everything? Mariana alright, and lovely Sherlock too of course?” Carol’s voice echoed as it left the speaker, and John couldn’t help but notice it sounded slightly as though she was in pain.
“Yep, everything’s good, I mean everything’s great, fantastic, yeah.”
In truth, everything was quite the opposite: Mariana had been unable to help as she was exhausted, wading everyday through an ocean of paperwork and files that spread across her floor; Sherlock had been overwhelmed when the case began, and now seemed as though he were about to have a meltdown at any second; and John had recently had a flair-up in his leg pain, and barely managed to get from his bed to his door, let alone run across London with his adrenaline-filled best friend (crush).
“Are you sure, lovely? You sound tired.” Again, she sounded as though she were in pain. “Is Sherlock still playing his violin late, like you said? I hope you- ahh” Panic shot through John as his Mum was cut off by a sharp gasp, and some talking in the background of the call.
“Mum, are you okay? You sound like you’re in pain, and now you’re screaming, what’s happening?”
“Ah, well, that’s what I was calling to tell you: I’ve had a fall, but only a little one. I’m just in hospital now, but they’ve said I can’t live by myself for now.”
John knew what was coming.
“Would I be able to stay with you, just for a little bit. It’ll be fun, and you’ll barely even notice me.”
John hated the thought: living away from his mum had been nothing short of bliss, and he abhorred the idea of returning to all the constant talking and nagging. But what was the alternative? She be stuck in hospital for months, years? Or sent to a care home? No, he couldn’t do that.
“‘Course you can, Mum. I’ll tell Sherlock when he gets home. We’re on a case at the minute though, you know, so you might be on your own or just with Mariana a lot.”
A content hum came from the speaker. “Aww, thank you, my lovely boy. You’ll have to come and pick me up tomorrow, okay. I’ll message you when to set off. Alright, love you. Bye!”
“Bye, mum, love you too.”
As soon as the call was over John dropped his phone onto the bed and covered his face with his hands.
“Shit,”, he sighed, “shit, shit, shit.”
He was going to spend God-knows-how-long living with his mother. Lucky him. Furthermore, already overwhelmed Sherlock was going to have to spend that time masking, as he always did in front of Carol.
As if summoned by John’s thoughts, Sherlock clumsily walked (fell, was more accurate) through the door of 221B and stumbled like a drunkard into the kitchen. John thought he ought to tell him as soon as possible, to rip the bandage off.
Entering the living room, he could already see into the kitchen, and could see the tall figure inside it. Sherlock stood looking thinner than usual, long limbs shaking very slightly, with his dark hair messy, stuck to his forehead with sweat, and flattened at the top of his head by his ear defenders. He was making a cup of tea.
“Hi mate,” John began, eliciting a gasp and small flinch from the other man, “So, um, my mum’s had a fall, and, I, well, I wondered if - they’re not letting her live alone for some time and-“
“She is perfectly alright to stay with us, John”
The voice came tired and flat and emotionless: just speaking seemed to make Sherlock exhausted.
“Are you sure, because she- she doesn’t *have* to, you know, I think I have some cousins up north that she could… Sherls are you okay?”
While John had been speaking, Sherlock had begun to sway a little, and now touched a shaking, bloodless hand to his forehead, as though he were about to faint.
“Yes, thank you” the answer came in sigh, and, having now finished making his tea, Sherlock made his way to the sofa in the living room, and carelessly dropped down onto it.
The silence in the room felt heavy and breathless, at least to John, as one man stood anxious and the other draped across the furniture exhausted.
There was so much to prepare in such little time. Would she be able to get upstairs? Where would she sleep? Someone would have to give up a bed. All thoughts that plagued John.
Again like he were psychic, Sherlock somehow read John’s mind once more:
“So where will she sleep?”
A few moments passed with no answer, so Sherlock turned his dark brown eyes from the floor up to John, and, when John met his gaze, his whole body seemed to fizz and bubble with to greatest of excitements. He truly was gorgeous.
“I hadn’t actually even thought about that. I was sort of panicked when she told me, I… I don’t know.”
“That’s alright, I understand.”
John laughed slightly, “What do you mean ‘you understand’?”
“That you didn’t think,” Sherlock replied flatly, bone-tired, “you feel so very deeply, and in such a beautiful way: it’s only natural that your first instinct would be to feel than to think in such a situation. Since my bed sleeps two, we can share my bed and Carol can have your single bed. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get some sleep.”
After concluding his point, Sherlock readjusted himself, then rested his head against John’s warm shoulder, quickly closing his eyes and falling asleep. Such an act was no longer unusual to John: the first time it had happened he had been flustered, however quickly came to realise that it meant nothing, and that Sherlock had no idea the romantic implications of doing so. Since then it had become a common thing for them to do, and every time John had to resist the urge to gently kiss the other man’s forehead and bury his face deep in his hair.
‘Oh God,’ John thought, suddenly panicked by the realisation of what had just been said, ‘I’m going to be sharing a bed with the man I’m in love with, basically obsessed with, on top of all this crap.’ The heartache ate away at him as he drifted deep into a sleep of his own, resting his head against Sherlocks.