twentysomething

Title: Staring at Squares, But My Eyes Never Focus

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC, 2010)

Pairing: Sherlock/John

Summary: "But for the moment, he’s master of his own chair- as content as is reasonably expectable of a cold, dreary morning, ignoring the dull ache in his shoulder and the sympathetic twitch in his leg. He’s got a (more or less) fresh cup of tea and the Wednesday morning crossword and the comfortable stretch of a morning ahead, free of outside obligation."

Length: 900 wordsish.

Warnings: None, other than if you've ever had someone answer your crossword unasked, you'll feel much like John and I do.

Notes: I imagine it has to be extremely frustrating to try to pursue any intellectual past-times, even as innocuous as the crossword when you're living with a genius. I live with leupagus, but she's never tried this, so she's still alive. With love, for her. <3


John’s sitting in his chair- by virtue of it being one of the few places in the apartment that stays relatively clean, but that’s just because the moment he vacates it, even to get a book from the next room, he’ll come back to find Sherlock in it. John suspects it’s a body warmth thing, like how cats will sneak into the exact spot you’ve been sleeping in while you’re having a piss and then claw you when you try to get in. (This is why John is a dog person.)

That being said, John hardly expects that Sherlock would try to claw him if he attempted to regain possession of the chair- but that also being said, when one is living with Sherlock Holmes, there are far worse things he can do (and has done) in retaliation.

But for the moment, he’s master of his own chair- as content as is reasonably expectable of a cold, dreary morning, ignoring the dull ache in his shoulder and the sympathetic twitch in his leg. He’s got a (more or less) fresh cup of tea and the Wednesday morning crossword and the comfortable stretch of a morning ahead, free of outside obligation.

“Fourteen down. Arrhythmia.” Sherlock drawls, looming over John’s right shoulder. John resists the belated impulse to jump like a startled rabbit. He reflexively scans the clues: “Heart palpitations.”

“I am a doctor, you know. I would have gotten that one,” John protests. “I haven’t even looked at the clues yet.” He feels like he’s defending his intelligence, which is ridiculous, because he really hadn’t looked over the clues yet. Sherlock just offers the bare impression of a shrug, which John doubts is actually any kind of apology.

“Seven up is ovule.” Sherlock says breezily, wandering off into the kitchen.

“7. Immature egg” stares up at John, and he sighs and puts the paper down.

***

Three days later, Sherlock is out at St. Bart’s and John (not because he’s bored, mind) goes back to his crossword. He’s filling in “South Africa 2010 chant” (Ole Ole), smiling faintly to himself when there’s a faint breeze behind him- like there’s someone with a ridiculously dramatic coat is brushing by.

“Lhasa. Eleven down.” Sherlock calls, already halfway out the door again. John tosses the paper on the coffee table.

***

John’s in his office- he’d absently thrown the over-a-week old paper in his case this morning, half-remembering Sarah saying something about no appointments booked all afternoon- but he’s got two unexpected cancellations so after he conscientiously updates all his files, he lays the paper flat out on his desk.

He’s about to fill in “Film monthly,” (“Empire”) when his mobile chimes. John scrambles to put it on vibrate- he supposes he forgot this morning- but not before he sees the text:

43 d. aerie. SH

John sighs into his hands.

***

John cannot figure out the purpose of Sherlock’s constant forays into his crossword- to be honest, John had sort of thought Sherlock would think himself above crosswords- the clues imprecise and open to interpretation and (for him) probably totally unsurprising.

But then he makes a spur of the moment decision to have his afternoon coffee in the park- because it’s a lovely day and he doesn’t get enough sunlight, really- and sees no less than four sets of geriatric spouses nestled together over the puzzle and John has this terrible burst of insight.

“You’re flirting with me,” he blurts out as he stumbles into the flat. Sherlock opens one eye at him from where he’s perched in John’s chair.

“That sounds terribly juvenile,” Sherlock muses, lazily shutting the open eye.

“But you are,” John pushes. “That’s what this is about.” John waves the paper around like proof- although maybe just certification of his utter insanity. Sherlock just smiles, insufferably smug.

“Yes, but is it working?” he asks smoothly, fixing John with an irritatingly serene gaze. John feels sort of like he’s been slapped with a fish, like that damn Python sketch.

“I tried subtlety, John, but you really weren’t responding.” Sherlock continues, as close to earnest as he gets and John wonders if someone slipped something into his coffee.

“This isn’t exactly obvious.” John protests, totally leaving all the implications of that statement aside for the moment. Sherlock purses his lips into a moue of consideration.

“But you did notice,” Sherlock points out, still aggravatingly calm and by God, John has had this.

“This is obvious,” John argues, bracing his hands on the back of the chair on either side of Sherlock’s head and kissing him, hard. He tries to pull back after a moment, but Sherlock’s hands catch in the front of John’s jumper, tugging him back in for an experimental bite at John’s lower lip.

“I cannot say I find fault with the obvious method, in this instance,” Sherlock breathes against John’s mouth. John grins, because it’s not every day you get one up on Sherlock Holmes.

“”The circle is now complete. When I left you, I was but the learner; now I am the master,”” John quips at him. Sherlock’s brow furrows.

“What the devil are you talking about, no, never mind, kiss me again,” Sherlock demands. John does as he’s asked, but a solution presents itself and he smiles into the next several kisses.

***

John fills in “Kylie” cheerfully and crosses through “Singer Minogue” in the back of Ok! Magazine.

Sherlock stares at the clues, mute.