Chapter Text
“Sherlock, I’m home!” John shouted as he bumped the door open with his hip, one hand holding a dripping wet umbrella and the other clutched onto a disheveled backpack he bought home from his sixteen hour shift at the A&E.
He was tired, his feet hurt from standing all day, and every single muscle in his body ached. All John Hamish Watson wanted to do at this moment was make a good strong cuppa and settle down in his armchair. He wasn’t sure if he would actually get to do that but it was a nice thought, wasn’t it?
Mindlessly John began going through the motions of settling down for the day, even if it was one am and way past his usual bedtime. He waltzed his way lazily into the kitchen, tossed his bag and umbrella onto the table -which was suspiciously clear-, moved the kettle under the faucet and back onto the burner. He slowly began to feel his brain shutting down as his hands and feet moved on auto-pilot. How he could ever keep up with this lifestyle even in his forties is beyond him and has been for quite a while. But Sherlock’s lively energy was infectious, or at least enough to keep John awake for days at a time without so much as a blink.
A soft grin came to John’s pondering expression over his husband, and subsequently fell. Did he hear a shout back? “Sherlock?” he shouted just a tad louder than before, brow furrowed in concern.
Silence followed, and John’s stomach churned.
Something was wrong. Sherlock was supposed to be home right now, or at the very least he hadn’t texted about leaving at all. John anxiously reached into his back pocket to bring out his phone and thumbed through previous text messages, only to find nothing of importance.
His brain quickly snapped to attention as he finally took in his surroundings. Everything looked the same, even from the kitchen. It didn’t look like there had been any sort of attack or-
-wait. No.
John blinked, rubbed his eyes. Was he seeing things? Or did the flat look spotless?
There wasn’t a speck of dirt or dust anywhere to be found. All evidence of lab equipment, human remains, or even the spare toenail clipping was no longer visible. It was so clean that for a moment John reconsidered the plausibility of an attempted robbery. Though something pecking at the back of his mind told him that was simply not the case. No, someone went to great lengths to clean the flat.
“Sherlock??” John called out for his partner once again, however his tone quickly shifted from stressed anxiety to a soft worry. He hadn’t ever seen this place so clean; even his first day at 221B had been disorganized from the get go. So the idea that this place was now spotless made the doctor feel just a tad uncomfortable.
Upon no response, John swiftly stared towards Sherlock’s room. He wasn’t positive the man would be in there, but it was the only lead he had.
He crossed his fingers and gently pushed on the door, only to find that it wasn’t even latched closed in the first place. And laying diagonal on the bed with just a lamp to illuminate the dark room, was William Sherlock Scott Holmes, passed out with his face pressed into a pillow. It took every last ounce of effort from within John to not burst into a chuckle right then and there. Rarely, if ever at all, did John walk in on Sherlock sleeping. There was no boundary put in place against it; Sherlock was simply too light of a sleeper to be caught. This thought grounded John back in reality.
Sherlock was dead asleep. Ever so carefully John moved forward and placed two fingers against the vein in his neck in hopes to pick up on a pulse. Instead, Sherlock lets out a disgruntled noise, and John is able to let out a small sigh of relief.
Okay. So he wasn’t dead.
Another incoherent grumble comes from the sleeping detective, and a hand that was pinned underneath his pillow flies up to half heartedly grasp around John’s wrist. “mmmfff..” His face, still half buried in a pillow, quickly muffles any and all words. John allows himself one quiet chuckle and takes the time to sit himself on the edge of the bed.
“Try again?”
“mmm..” Sherlock turns his head towards the source of the voice and his eyes barely peer open before closing again. “late…”
“Nope. Double shift today, remember? Even had it on a post-it note on the fridge.” Sherlock let out a groan of protest, and his grip tightened if only for a moment before losing all strength. John takes this moment to turn his hand into his, and their fingers lace together. “Why are you in bed so early? Did something happen while I was away?” John tried not to allow his tone to become too overcome with concern.
One of Sherlock’s eyes managed to peel open, and his brow wrinkles in response. “i got busy.”
“With what?” John scoffs.
“... housework.”
“Housework? What for?”
“mmm…” Sherlock let out another groan in protest and screwed his eyes shut.
“Sherlock what for?” John tries for a bit more of a firmer tone, to which Sherlock huffs in reply. “Come on now, don’t give me that. This flat hasn’t been clean since before you got here, and I’d like to know what gave you the idea that now was a better time than ever.” Despite his jovial tone, John couldn’t help the concern stirring in the pit of his stomach.
A well known symptom of drug abuse was a need for cleanliness, or the desire to clean. Even if this was never previously displayed in Sherlock, it was something that could still come up. This thought alone stressed him out.
Luckily enough, Sherlock is quick to squander any and all concerns. “you were gone, i kept busy.” This short statement causes John’s eyes to widen, disregarding the exhaustion they carried only seconds ago.
“You expect me to believe that you missed me so much that you finally cleaned out the damn flat?” John no longer made an effort to hide the perplexment from his tone, and Sherlock simply breathed a sign and ever so gently squeezed John’s hand.
“is that so hard to believe?”
Six words. It takes these six simplistic, gentle words for John Watson to fall in love all over again. His once tired brain now swirls with affirmations of love and adoration.
On days like these, in moments so intimate like this, John can hardly believe there are people who could even begin to think of Sherlock Holmes as some sort of sociopath. This man loved so easily and without second thought, and it warmed John’s aching body. In one soft motion he leaned down and pressed a kiss into Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock is unable to hide the smile that slowly makes its way across his face.
John barely pulls away, and when he speaks his breath warms his partner’s cheek. “No. No it’s not.”