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If John were aware of the day he was going to have, he probably would have stayed in bed.
However, John was not aware of the day he was going to have which is why 8 o'clock found him standing in the bathroom combing his hair after a shower. He secured his robe and left the bathroom in search of food and his flatmate, who was certainly already awake and bored, seeing as he probably hadn't even slept at all.
He found his flat mate, and best friend, in the kitchen working diligently with some various body part. John's appetite instantly vanished, and he resigned himself to simply making tea.
"Morning, Sherlock," he said, greeting his friend.
Sherlock offered nothing in return and kept his eyes glued on his experiment. John shrugged, used to this behavior, and busied himself preparing his tea. After he poured himself a cup, he decided to enjoy his tea and paper in the safety of the living room, away from Sherlock and whatever he was currently cutting open.
John did not have five minutes to enjoy his cuppa before his ornery flatmate strode into the room. He stopped directly in front of John's arm chair and crossed his arms.
"Stand up," he ordered, his eyes fixed on John.
John merely sighed. "Please, Sherlock, my day has just begun and I'd like to enjoy at least a little bit of it before you have us rushing around the entire city."
Sherlock scoffed and moved closer.
"Oh come off it, this will only take a minute. Besides, there's nothing of interest in that paper anyway."
John rolled his eyes, knowing that it was no use to argue with Sherlock when he was in one of his stubborn moods. He folded his paper, taking his time to do so, and slowly stood up. Sherlock rolled his eyes and approached him.
"Good, now drop your robe"
John's eyes widened and his jaw just about hit the floor. He quickly recovered and gave Sherlock a grimace.
"Are you MAD? Why on Earth would I do that?"
"Are you really that daft, John? Have you not been following this current case at all?" Sherlock said, not moving from where he stood, only inches from John. John gave him a blank look and Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically.
"GOD you can be so senseless sometimes! It’s the case about the Hunter, John, the latest serial killer to grace the streets of London, a man with extreme hunting prowess. He uses various tracking and hunting techniques to find and trap victims, catching them in ankle traps and forcing them to cut off one of their own limbs in order to escape... Quite fascinating really, the victim would die of blood loss before escaping, and several of the bodies have been found skinned, like animals. He’s hunting the world's greatest prey: other humans. But he's far too flashy to have any real intelligence, if you ask me—”
"I still don't understand what this has to do with me taking off my robe," John cut in, eying Sherlock skeptically. The detective gave him one of his 'you're trying my patience looks' and said slowly,
"Because I have not been able to examine the skinned bodies, I need to examine a living one and see for myself how it might be done."
Sherlock indicated toward the knife that was in his hand-- an element that John had somewhere overlooked until this very moment.
"You can't be serious," he said with an incredulous look at the detective.
"Obviously I'm not really going to skin you, I just need to go through the motions to see how it would be done. Now off with the robe," Sherlock commanded.
"No bloody way!"
"Come on John, it will only take a minute," Sherlock said reaching for the drawstring on John's robe.
"No! Get. Off!" John grunted, struggling to pull the rope out of Sherlock's hands.
"You're. Being. Stupid." gritted Sherlock, pulling harder in an attempt to get his unwilling flat mate out of the robe.
"Well, you're. Being. A prick!" growled John in response, clutching his robe tighter.
They were both in the midst of struggling, faces inches from each other, pulling and tugging, both grunting in their efforts to claim the robe, when all of a sudden they heard the door to the flat open.
"Oh my!" exclaimed the voice of Mrs. Hudson. Both men froze.
"My apologies, boys! Next time I'll be sure to knock. Although you may want to consider keeping the door locked if you plan on participating in such activities!"
The pair remained frozen in silence for another moment, and then John snapped out of it first.
"Mrs. Hudson, trust me, its not what you think it is-"
"Of course not, Dear," she replied with a wink. She then bustled out the door, chuckling to herself as she walked down the stairs.
Neither man moved until the door shut with a soft click. John instantly shoved Sherlock off of him.
"I'm going to get dressed," he said curtly. Sherlock gave no indication of hearing him, and retreated into the kitchen to continue his previous work.
After the fiasco in the morning, John almost didn't go with Sherlock to meet with Lestrade. Almost.
Currently, the detective and the doctor were sitting in Lestrade's office, with Sherlock going over what information he had found so far.
"… and the samples revealed that he has been traipsing around somewhere near the water. There are several abandoned residences near the river. Luckily for you and your men, I've already narrowed it down to one because the traces of vegetation on the shoe match the flowers in the garden of the house next door," Sherlock concluded, looking smug as always. John cast him a sideways glance, and rolled his eyes.
"Well if you two want to take a look first, I'll take my time telling my officers the location. We'll be there in an hour," Lestrade said quietly, giving Sherlock a thankful look. Sherlock replied with a curt nod and stood to leave. John smiled and said, "Thank you, Greg," as the detective whisked out the door.
As they walked down the hallway, John looked up at Sherlock and asked,
"Do you have to make that face all the time?"
Sherlock's brows furrowed.
"What face?"
"That smug look you get after you ramble off all your deductions, like you're basking in their amazement at you. It's quite conceited-"
Before John even had time to take another breath, Sherlock grabbed him by the arm and unceremoniously whipped him into the nearby broom closet.
John swallowed a yelp as he was unceremoniously shoved inside. Sherlock shut the door with his foot and glared at John.
"I'm doing what people call a 'good thing' by saving worthless peoples' lives, and yet you insult me?" he asked threateningly, "I don't understand what you want. You seem to be impressed by my intelligence yourself, yet I'm not allowed to take pride in what I do? Is it so wrong to be proud?"
John attempted to wipe the shocked look from his face, and only partially succeeded as he answered,
"Look Sherlock, I was only commenting-"
Sherlock grabbed him by his jacket collar and shoved him up against the nearest shelves. This caused a feather duster and a few, small plastic bottles to tumble onto John's head.
"Because I'm trying to do my work and you, who claims to want to help, have done nothing but stand in my way the entire day." Sherlock growled, "So what is it you want, John?"
Just then, the door to the closet opened and an older man in a janitor's uniform peered in at them with wide eyes. He took in John's tousled hair, and the way Sherlock was gripping John's shirt, and chuckled.
"I thought I heard some banging coming from in here" he said with a wink "but I'm gonna have to ask you boys to leave. Can't be messing around with the cleaning supplies and all. Sorry to ruin the fun."
"Um, we weren't-" John stuttered, but Sherlock had already let go and was stalking away. John closed his eyes and sighed before hurrying after his friend.
"Stop looking at me like that" Sherlock snapped as he picked the lock on the old house.
"Sherlock-" John began. The man looked up at John from where he was kneeling on the ground and searched his face for about two seconds before stating,
"Ah I understand, you want to talk, don't you? Oh please John, spare me the grating speech that I know you have planned in your mind. We have work to do, so please try and focus this time."
John decided to drop it, knowing that arguing would get him nowhere. Obviously Sherlock was fine.
The click of the lock indicated they were in. The duo entered cautiously, taking in the dusty old house. Sherlock nodded toward a nearby door.
"The basement," he said quietly "Where does a hunter store the meat? Somewhere cold, and dark."
They walked down the stairs on light feet and took in the dark, cement room. There were boxes scattered throughout and pipes ran along the ceiling.
"We have to be careful," John whispered, "There's bound to be traps scattered through here."
Sherlock gave a curt nod in response as his eyes continued to scan the large room.
"I think we should-" John continued before he found himself flying through the air. He let out a surprised yelp as the rope around his ankle tightened and he found himself hanging upside down from the ceiling. He flailed before he heard Sherlock moving nearby,
"Stop struggling, you'll tighten the bonds," he said with the smallest of amusement in his voice.
"For fucks sake..." John swore, trying to twist his body around to face the detective.
"I thought the soldier would be more cautious around booby traps. Weren't you just telling me to watch where I step?" he said cockily as he approached John.
John glared at him from upside down and was about to retort when suddenly he watched Sherlock being lifted up into the air. Soon he too was suspended upside down, hanging less than a foot away from John.
"Ugh." Sherlock grimaced, obviously ruffled over this new development.
"Yeah, not so easy, is it?" John commented, folding his arms across his chest... which was a difficult feat to accomplish while upside down.
Sherlock ignored him. His eyes were flying all over the room as his amazing brain worked on a solution.
"We need something long to wrap around that bar up there," Sherlock said, indicating toward the bar overhead that both their ropes were tied to, "We need another rope, or something long that we could tie together. Then we could wrap it around the bar, and I could use it to lift myself up enough to cut my rope."
"And mine, right? Or are you still angry enough at me to leave me here?" John asked, still miffed.
"Yes, yes. I'll help you too. So take off your clothes."
John grimaced at hearing Sherlock say that for the second time today. He gave the detective a meaningful look.
"Oh grow up, John!" Sherlock spat, clearly growing even more agitated than before, "Do you want to get down from here or not?"
John groaned and began unbuttoning his jacket. Sherlock smirked in triumph before taking John's jacket from him and began to help him pull his sweater off. Once both articles were in Sherlock's hands, he nimbly tied them together.
"I'll need another piece, John," he said without looking at his companion. John grumbled and pulled off his t-shit as well, leaving him completely bare on top. Sherlock quickly tied it to the end and pulled tight, testing the strength.
"Alright, I'm going to whip one end up and try to get it around the bar. Once I do, I'll grab both ends and use it to pull myself up enough to grab my own rope. Then I'll be able to cut us both down," Sherlock explained confidently, his deep voice once again filled with excitement at completing this new challenge.
He tossed one end up and over the bar, succeeding on his first try. He gripped both ends in his hands and began to lift himself, like an upside down sit up. A snap suddenly echoed through the basement as two of the articles of clothing came apart. Sherlock fell, and went swinging backwards, slamming into John with a mutual "Ommph!", sending them both swinging.
They were a tangle of limbs as they swung and by the time the ropes came to a rest, they were quite tangled. Sherlock and a still-shirtless John were pressed impossibly close together, the two ropes tangled in hopeless knots.
"Mmmpff" said John, because his face was smushed into Sherlock's chest.
"Yes I know," Sherlock huffed uncomfortably, trying to shift to a better angle. He gripped John's hips and pulled them apart. John gave him a pointed look and Sherlock frowned.
"I know I've made it worse, however-"
"Well, what have we got here?" another voice interrupted, echoing from the entrance of the basement.
The two men turned their heads to see Sgt. Donovan smirking at them, with a chuckling Lestrade by her side. Five more men in uniform came down the stairs and stopped when they saw the detective and half naked doctor clinging to each other upside down.
"Great. Just great..." muttered John, attempting to wiggle into a less compromising position. The movement made Sherlock let go of John's waist, causing them to crash back together.
The officers by the stairs were all sniggering by now. Lestrade signaled for them to bring over a ladder that was leaning against a remote corner of the basement as he and Donovan approached the dangling duo.
John turned his head, which once again was pressed against Sherlock's chest, and looked at Lestrade.
"You know it's not-" he started, but Lestrade simply held up his hands and glanced away with a knowing look. John groaned and prayed that they would be cut down sooner rather than later.
Lestrade and the rest of the officers left as soon as they cut down the detective and his blogger. He told Sherlock that they had searched the house and found nothing.
"He must have moved on," said Lestrade to Sherlock as he went out the door. As the rest of the team left, Sherlock stood with his hands together, chin resting on top, trying to think. John merely grumbled to himself about his stretched out sweater as he redressed himself.
"Are you ready, Sherlock?" John asked "Lestrade said-"
"My God, how could I be so daft? He's been here the whole time!" Sherlock suddenly yelped.
"What do you mean?" John asked, surprised by his answer.
Sherlock ignored him and hurried over to one of the scattered boxes. He reached in and grabbed a small object, which he instantly threw towards a dark corner near the stairs. A loud shout was heard from the area. John gaped at the dark corner, and then whipped his head towards Sherlock in question. Sherlock began to walked carefully toward the area from which the sound had come.
"He's a hunter, John. No stranger to camouflage. And he enjoys watching his prey struggle, so why wouldn't he be here? Of course he would be close to the stairs in case he needed to make an escape. One must always have a way out."
As soon as the words left Sherlock's mouth, John saw a man appear out of nowhere, just ahead of them. The man let his dark sheet flutter to the floor as he took off up the stairs.
"Don't let him get away!" shouted Sherlock, and the two took chase.
Up the stairs, out the door, and into the street they chased the hunter. The man was quick, John had to give him that. They continued the chase through the streets and alleys, and across a small park. As they dodged between shrubs, John noticed the criminal discreetly reach into the waist of his jeans. The soldier in John suddenly surfaced, and he shouted for his friend, who was just ahead of him,
"Sherlock!"
The shot was fired just as John collided into Sherlock, knocking him to the ground. The bullet whizzed over them, and the criminal continued running, not even bothering to look back.
John was still breathing heavily when he realized that Sherlock wasn't moving underneath him. He gripped both sides of Sherlock's head with his hands, and lifted it gently from the ground. In his rush to move them out of the path of the gun, he had neglected to protect them from the hard ground. The doctor in him chided that he shouldn't be such a careless git. John gently shook Sherlock, and tapped the sides of his face in order to wake him up. Sherlock wheezed suddenly and his eye popped open. John had never been so happy to see those ever-changing blue eyes.
"Oh thank God," John sighed, shifting so that he was propping himself up on his forearms. He looked down at Sherlock and let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"He got away..." was Sherlock's first response, followed by, "And what are you doing on top of me?"
John couldn't help but laugh, and soon his whole body was shaking with laughter.
"I'm… sorry-" John gasped between laughs "This shouldn't… be… funny."
Sherlock merely gave him a half smile, before his eyes wandered over to the left. John followed his gaze and saw a young boy standing nearby, staring at the two men on top of each other. A woman was running over, presumably the boy's mother, and yanked on his arm.
"Billy, come on! Honestly, you can't even go to the park anymore… indecency!" the woman exclaimed loud enough for the pair to hear. As they walked away, John became acutely aware of each and every spot where his and Sherlock's bodies were touching. He rolled off of Sherlock as quickly as he could and moved to a sitting position on the grass. He looked down at his hands as he spoke to Sherlock,
"You know, the number of times-" he began. But Sherlock was already on his feet, surveying the area.
"We need a cab," he stated briskly.
John didn't even question it this time, and stood up and hurried after the detective.
"And where are we going now?" John managed to ask as Sherlock hurried along.
"The hunter may have gotten away on foot, but luckily I know where he is going" was Sherlock's curt reply. He hailed a cab, and John pushed his desire to talk aside as he followed Sherlock into the vehicle.
John despised going to the hospital when he wasn't working. In fact, he tried to avoid it at all costs. However, he refused to leave Sherlock's side as the tall detective sat on the table while the doctor put bandages over his eyes.
They had caught the hunter. They tracked him to the railroad tracks where they gave chase until Sherlock was able to grab onto the man's arm and take him down. The killer and the detective both fell to the ground, where the hunter resorted to a basic survival method to get away: tossing dirt into the face of a threat. Sherlock recoiled, but as soon as the man stood, John was ready for him. He wrapped his arms around his neck and took him into a headlock, sinking to his knees. Sherlock, whose eyes were still closed, dialed Lestrade's number by memory and soon the hunter was being taken away.
Sherlock had wanted to simply go home, but John had insisted that they go to the hospital. Sherlock's eyes were still bloodshot and half-closed, and John's trained eye noticed the puffiness around them. Which is why they were now sitting in the hospital room with Sherlock shifting, complaining, and being generally annoying to the professionals trying to help him.
A young doctor had informed the pair that some of the dirt and metal particles had scratched Sherlock's corneas, but he would be fine after a few weeks. The poor fellow was trying to explain the treatment plan, but he kept getting interrupted by the prickly detective.
John excused himself from the room, suddenly feeling the need to be away from his companion for at least a few minutes.
He couldn't come up with a word to describe the day they'd had. Awkward? No, it was something deeper than that. Aggravating? Possibly, but there were many other emotions as well. Arousing?
Wait, where did that come from?
Everyone else in the world seemed to assume they were something more than just flatmates. Today alone four different people believed they had walked in on the two of them... being intimate. If those people had been right, he would have fucked Sherlock four times in one day.
John didn't like thinking about his relationship with Sherlock too deeply. It brought up confusing feelings that he had no idea how to come to terms with. He shook his head to try to clear his muddled brain. Before he could contemplate more carefully, Sherlock emerged from the room, bandages over his eyes.
"Alright doctor, I'm ready to go home now," he announced to John.
John smiled, simply because he knew Sherlock couldn't see it, and guided the taller man outside. Once on the street, the duo walked close together so that John could make sure Sherlock wouldn't run into anything. Almost unconsciously, John's hand reached out and grasped Sherlock's. He felt the taller man stiffen and then instantly relax.
John looked over and wished he could read Sherlock's eyes to see what he was feeling, because he definitely wouldn't say it. Unfortunately, the bandages hid the emotions almost as well as Sherlock himself. Ah well, John was used to feeling confused about Sherlock's feelings anyway. He supposed he'd have to remain in the dark for now.
He looked ahead once again as they made their way towards Baker Street. Yes, people were definitely going to talk now. But you know what? This time, John Watson didn't care what other people thought.