A/N: It's not much, but it's Holmes. Enjoy (:
"Come now, John, don't be ridiculous," Mycroft chided, his ever-present umbrella dangling with careless elegance from a hand.
"But how could they have been - so - so - ignorant?" John practically growled, raking a hand through his hair in frustration, "Those imbeciles."
Great, he even talked like Sherlock now.
"You can't really have expected anyone to like him," said Mycroft placidly, as close to gentle as John had ever seen him.
Anyone. Not everyone. Anyone.
"Why not?" An irritated snap. "Why can't anyone see how - how happy I am, how happy he makes me, and how we just - fit - and -"
"They can see that, John," the older Holmes said reasonably, laying a hand on his good shoulder, "They just aren't ready to accept that yet."
"Do you think he'll be fine, though?" John asked quietly, "I mean, it can't have been easy, having the entire Watson clan hurling verbal assault at him."
He was beginning to feel the first tendrils of guilt snaking their way around his chest, squeezing until he felt the breaths he drew were forced, and not due to the contracting and relaxing of his lungs.
"Don't think too much on it, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said neutrally, which was probably the Holmesian tone of voice for consolingly, "The ones at fault here are your somewhat - pardon me - idiotic and insensitive family members."
"I shouldn't have made him go," John mumbled, shrugging away the comforting hand resting on his shoulder, "He never wanted to but he went anyway because it'd make me happy -"
And to think anyone could ever have thought the man a sociopath. Sherock was arguably the least unfeeling person John had ever known; he had never met another person who cared more for his feelings.
Mycroft remained silent, twirling his umbrella contemplatively, and John got the impression that the man had no idea what to say. A rare occurrence indeed. He would have to mention that to Sherlock.
Once he found out where he was.
The consulting detective had fled as soon as John's family had stopped their verbal onslaught of insults, some of which were cutting enough to rival Sherlocks' own.
Sherlock had, surprisingly, not risen to the bait (although John could hardly have blamed him for that) and remained silent for the most part, only cutting across John's mother during a diatribe on 'arrogant, self-destructive freaks' to inform her he badly needed some air, before ducking out the front door, leaving John to swear creatively at his family members when he could see no sign of Sherlock anywhere on the street.
John hadn't heard from him since. That had been seventeen hours (and forty seven minutes) ago.
No texts or calls. No surveillance of him anywhere on Mycrofts' many CCTVs. ('If he is found, it will only be because he wants it so,' was Mycroft's helpful input.) There wasn't even a particularly gruesome triple homicide for him from Lestrade, so John would know to meet him at the crime scene. (John had seriously considered staging a murder with locked doors and windows, and no sign of a forced entry, just to get Sherlock's arse dragged back within Mycroft's stalking radar.)
He told himself to stop worrying, that Sherlock was a grown man, and had managed survive for thirty-odd years before John came along. Yes, on cocaine and heroin and who knows what else, a nasty little voice supplied in his head. He resolutely pushed it back.
"Thanks for the talk and abduction, Mycroft," John said dryly, surprised that he actually meant it, turning and making for the shiny black sedan whose engine was still idling outside the abandoned warehouse.
"Anytime, Doctor Watson," the embodiment of the British Government called, and John would have bet anything that he was now leaning with a look of smug superiority on his black umbrella, if he'd cared to turn back.
xxx x xxx
4 hours later
John woke to the sound of the flat's door creaking open.
"Sh'lock?" he yawned, uncurling himself from his position on the sofa, wrapped in the detective's blue dressing gown.
Sherlock froze, one foot over the threshold, looking for all the world like a deer caught in headlights. John, who could read Sherlock's many impassive facial expressions with accuracy, saw the idea of fleeing cross his boyfriend's mind, and knew in his heart he wouldn't get to him before he vanished without a trace for the second time in day.
So he employed a heretofore untested tactic on the consulting detective.
He began convulsing as though in pain, choking on cut-off screams.
"John -" Sherlock was by his side in a second, "Are you alright?"
John didn't have time to feel bad for the trick as he stopped faking the convulsions and tackled Sherlock to the floor, pinning him in place with his body.
His boyfriend struggled, but in the end John's military training won out and Sherlock sagged against the floor, glaring at John accusingly.
"Where did you go?" John demanded, glaring right back, "I was worried about you, you arse."
"Oh yes, that's what Mycroft does too, constantly," Sherlock spat in an uncannily precise imitation of his brother's voice, as John fought valiantly to refrain from laughing.
"Look, I'm sorry I made you go and I'm sorry about what my relatives said," John began, still sitting astride Sherlock (in case he decided to flee from the 'talking' part of their relationship), "They just need time - they didn't mean those things."
"Yes, they did." Spoken so softly John has to strain to hear him, and he felt his heart contract painfully in his chest, as he gave in to the urge to kiss the worried furrow on Sherlocks' brow off, smoothing a gentling hand over the dark curls.
Sherlock leaned instinctively into his touch, before taking a deep breath as though steeling himself. "John, I want you to know that I'm sorry, and I know what I'm doing is selfish, but it has to be done."
John (who was really beginning to feel worried now) arched a brow questioningly, and tried making light of the matter, "If you tell me you've gotten Mycroft to have my parents thrown in jail I may just have to kill you."
His pithy comment was ignored as Sherlock ploughed on, "I would never come between you and your family, John. It's obvious I am causing you and your parents pain and I think we all know the best solution is to extract me from the equation," -Sherlock was talking at full speed now- "I know you can't afford a place on your own, which is why I'll be moving out - I only came back to get my things, and then I'll be out of your life - you can have 221B all to yourself; no experiments, explosions, or body parts in the frid-"
Sherlock's ridiculously endearing speech was silenced by John's mouth on his, as the detective was snogged the living daylights out of. John had one hand buried in Sherlock's curls and the other snaking its way under his shirt to brush bare skin. Sherlock, for his part, had both his hands around John's neck and was reciprocating the kiss with enthusiasm.
When things threatened to take on an explicitly NC-17 level, John pulled back, resting his forehead against Sherlock's and grinning breathlessly down at him.
"That," John gasped, still rather deprived of oxygen from the snog, "was the most ridiculous and touching thing I have ever heard come out of your mouth."
The detective stilled, frowning, "Is that a compliment? People don't generally tell me what I say is ridiculous."
John rolled his eyes in exasperation, "That wasn't the point, Sherlock. The point is that you are the most stupid, idiotic and selflessly caring person I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. I love you, you tosser, and sod it to what my parents think. If you think there's even the slightest chance I'm letting you move out you're mad."
Sherlock opened his mouth to correct him, but John beat him to it.
"Yes, yes, already mad, point taken," he smirked, "Allow me to rephrase: if you think there's even the slightest chance I'm letting to move out you're sane."
His boyfriend arched a skeptical brow, "As sane as you are?"
John grinned, "As sane as I am."
At that Sherlock cracked a tiny hint of a smile, "John, the night we met I told you a woman had been murdered and you followed me to the crime scene. Later that night you tracked a murderer down and killed him. Might I also remind you're currently dating a psychopath? 'Sane' is not the first term that comes to mind when asked to describe you, I'm afraid."
Sherlock caught John's eye, and John felt his breath whoosh out of him as he dissolved into helpless giggles, Sherlock joining him as they guffawed in a most undignified manner on the floor of 221B, each held in the circle of the other's arms.
"We're mad, aren't we," John chortled, and it wasn't even a question.
Psychopath, not sociopath, the rational part of John's mind registered as buried his huffs of laughter into Sherlock's neck. He hadn't called himself a sociopath.
Some would feel there was little difference, but to John it made all the difference in the world.
A/N: Review, please? Check out my other Johnlock fic 'Oh God, Yes' while you're at it; I'm trying to come up with ideas for another chapter ;)