Chocolate Digestives

Need anything from the shops? – JW

John’s messages are always short, and to anyone else would have a slightly harsh note. The two of them did not need colons and brackets in the shape of faces to express their emotions, this was so much more than enough. Sherlock removes his gaze from the lenses of the microscope and fires off a text.

KY – SH

I’m sorry, what? – JW

Do you need me to be more specific? – SH

A silence. For a moment, two, three. John is stopped.

Sod off. – JW

Spent a little bit too much time staring at the chocolate digestives? – SH

How the bloody hell– never mind. Anything else? – JW

An interesting package arrived for you. DVDs, by their weight. The extended edition of Lord of the Rings, it would seem. – SH

A game of Spot the Doctor when I get back? – JW.

I have experiments. A pause. Two pauses. Of course. – SH

Sherlock looks up from under his microscope and realises John’s been watching his prize for an hour or so now. He moves over to the couch. “There, look. Pointed shoes.”

“How did you — I’ve been watching this for an hour and I can’t believe you just swan right in here and get it straight away,” he sighed, frustrated. A frown. Sherlock leans closer to his ear.

“Never look at the screen dead on, always look for him out of the corner of your eye,” he settles into John’s shoulder unashamedly. A small time later, “There!” The two of them said in the same moment, tied at last.

“Bastard.”

“Madman.” They make eye contact, they giggle, they laugh. His phone…rings? It’s Mycroft.

“Sherlock, it’s a matter of great importance, the entire country–”

“Guess what?”

“What?”

“Mycroft is Latin for stupid.” He hangs up the phone, and they giggle even more.

“The other Holmes, hey? Buckingham Palace,” John stands to leave, wipes his hands on his trousers but rather than get his coat, fetches a sheet from the bedroom instead. Sherlock slips out of his clothes shamelessly, John tries to hide the red in his ears, particularly while Sherlock hands him his purple shirt. The two of them meant to leave, but they both find their spots, and settle into each other. Mycroft sends one last precautionary text.

Sherlock Holmes, what are you doing? – M 

Oh, only one initial? He was miffed.

Can’t. Busy. – SH.

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