Notes: Please take this with a grain of salt and a lot of humor. It's not canon-compliant at all and I honestly just wrote it for the lulz and as an attempt to get over a major case of writer's block that's been hovering over me since I completed Never-Ending Cycle.
Warnings: Swearing, slash, minor implied sexuality
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. The original characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary characterizations belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and their associates. The only thing I own is the story below as you see it written.
In the Sheets
"BOYS! YOU'VE GOT ANOTHER ONE!"
Sherlock groans next to his ear. John sighs against the pillow and opens his eyes to stare at the clock. Sherlock leans over his shoulder and does so as well, and they grumble simultaneously when they see it's ten o'clock in the morning.
"Why is that woman in our kitchen at such an infernal hour?" Sherlock asks John's shoulder.
"She does her shopping early and she always buys extra for us. Honestly, aren't you the consulting detective?"
"The question was rhetorical."
John gives a laugh that's actually a half-groan and sits up, rubbing his face. He can hear Mrs. Hudson rummaging around downstairs, fretting up a storm, Come on now dear, stand up. Sit down. Cup of tea?
The moment John pulls away, Sherlock steals all the blankets and covers his head. All John can see of him is his dark head of hair, stark against their white sheets. He reaches out and shakes his shoulder, muttering, "Come on. Get up. They're here to see you, not me. You're the consultant."
"Nooo," Sherlock says in an almost reprimanding tone, as if John is the one being childish. "What we'll do is, you go downstairs and ask him what it's about. No doubt it's someone else who thinks they've gotten dog ashes instead of their grandmother's."
"It was the aunt Sherlock."
Sherlock sighs and flings the blankets away from his face, giving John a baleful glare before flipping over and pulling the blankets back up. "Do I look like I care?"
"Sherlock. You have to get out of bed. This is ridiculous. You've been doing this for a week."
"Well maybe if you hadn't made us internet famous with your stupid blog I wouldn't have to worry about paparazzi every time I leave the house!" comes the angry growl from King Sherlock's Blanket Palace.
The epitome of childishness, he scoots away from John until nothing of his is touching anything of John's, and curls into as small a ball as possible. "As it is, I'm not leaving the house for anything that isn't positively fascinating, John. And when I say fascinating, I mean serial killers. I mean, not something given to me by someone off the street."
"Oh Sherlock," sighs John, rubbing his face and getting off the bed. "What do you suggest I do if it is something that I think we should investigate?"
"I have a computer and you have a computer, and they both have webcams. Very simple, John. Very simple."
"That's ridiculous!" John insists, tossing a pair of pants at the general area of where he thinks Sherlock's head is. By the angry yelp, he knows he's hit his intended target. "Sherlock Holmes, you are getting out of that bed today whether you like it or not."
"I will get out of this bed, John, but nothing you can say will make me leave this flat."
"Sherlock. You're making me cross."
"Oh yes, John. But then it's not hard to make you cross, honestly."
"Fine! I will go downstairs. I will get the information from your client. And if I think it's important enough, I am going to call you, and you will get out of bed. Satisfied?"
Sherlock snorts. "Depends on what you mean by 'satisfied'."
"Oh, fuck you."
"I was tired last night!" He trips while trying to put on his pants, dragged off Sherlock's body a second earlier, and falls down. Mrs. Hudson calls, "Are you alright, boys?" and he answers, "Yes, Mrs. Hudson!" before struggling up off the ground. Arguing with Sherlock always makes his leg hurt.
"You're always tired. Maybe if we don't take so many cases..."
"I was in Dublin at a conference the three days straight. I think I'm allowed to be tired!" He limps over to the bed and yanks the sheet completely away from Sherlock's body, ignoring Sherlock's yip and sitting down on the bed to put his socks on. "Besides. I seem to recall a certain man giving you two orgasms before he left for Dublin on Tuesday night. Now who was that, Sherlock?"
"Haven't the fainest."
"Bite your tongue!"
Sherlock flops around on the bed, tugs John down by the shoulder, and straddles his thighs. Once he's got him down, and subdued him by pinning his arms to the bed, he mutters, "Are you really going to make me leave this flat and be molested by the idiotic drones of bureaucracy that call themselves the press?"
John sighs and grabs Sherlock's hand, kissing his knuckles. He knows the extra influx of work has exhausted the detective, and maybe they should dim down their case intake and maybe John should be less liberal in the ones they pursue, but he's already made his case and he's not going to back down. "Someone has to talk to the man, Sherlock. I'll do it. But if it's important, I will need you. I'm not the consulting detective."
"So then go to the scene and check it out," sighs Sherlock. "More likely than not it'll be something so dull that even the authorities will be able to solve it in a reasonable amount of time."
Sherlock smiles slightly. "Good. That's my Watson."
Sherlock rolls off him, gathers the sheet back around himself, and thumps his head against the pillow. "Wake me up when you get home."
"Fine. Keep your phone on."
"It's on vibrate."
"I'll hear it!"
"No you will not!"
There is no reply, so John grabs Sherlock's phone, turns it onto its highest sound level. Sherlock is asleep again by the time he's done that, so John kisses his temple and leaves.
An hour later, Sherlock receives a text that comes so loudly it shocks him out of bed. It's from John:
Get your arse out of bed.
Well. Maybe something fun is actually going on.
Notes: See, told ya! Just little bit of harmless fun. ;)
Fun for all, I hope!