JohnLock - One-shot [English]

The bedroom

It had been a long day. Very long. Exhausting even. John had spent the day treating screaming children, he had almost been run over, and it was raining. It was a very long day, and he just wanted to lie down and sleep. Maybe take a shower. Eventually, if he could find the energy. But he clearly doubted it.

As much to say that he was in a very bad mood, and intended to spend a quiet evening. He also prayed that his roommate would be understanding, and that he would avoid, for once, the cut heads in the fridge, the eyes in the coffee, or any other human part in the apartment.

When he pushed open the door of 221B Baker Street, he was greeted by silence. He sighed with relief at the thought of having even a few minutes of quiet. Maybe Sherlock would be away on an investigation, and wouldn't be back for hours. Given the hour, Mrs. Hudson should be in front of her soap opera, so no risk of being disturbed either.

John dropped all his things directly on his chair, he would tidy up later. The few steps leading to his room had never seemed so long, and difficult to climb. His whole body ached and protested against this treatment. Luckily the reward was his soft bed, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to move a muscle.

The hand on the handle, it must have been five minutes that it resisted him. For some unknown reason, this damn door refused to open. He could force, pull and push, but it remained obstinately closed. John put his head against the wood, and sighed a long time

- I just want to sleep...

He honestly wasn't sure if he was going to start crying, or shoot the door open.

Then he remembered that his gun was in his room.

- Shit...

Defeatist, he went back down the stairs, one by one, with a heavy step, his eyes half closed. In the living room, he considered the sofa for a few seconds. He had already seen Sherlock resting there many times. But he wanted to spend a quiet night.

So he ended up going to his roommate's room. The second his head hit the pillow, his eyes closed, and he fell asleep.

John had already been sleeping soundly for a few hours when a tall figure pushed open the door of 221B Baker Street. He was covered in blood, but that wasn't really what was bothering him at the moment. He was used to it, and besides, when you're leading an investigation in a slaughterhouse, chasing a giant, you don't expect to come home clean as a whistle.

No, for the moment, what the detective didn't understand was why he could see his roommate's things, but there was no trace of him anywhere. And even stranger, the door of his room was locked.

The detective frowned, confused. This behavior was clearly not normal for his doctor. He would have expected him to be in his chair, with a cup of tea in his hand, reading the paper. Or in the kitchen, with a dish towel over his shoulder, preparing a meal of some sort.

No note anywhere announcing his departure. It was definitely not logical.

He couldn't hear any noise in the bathroom, indicating that he wasn't showering either. And if he was in the bath, then you could clearly hear his favorite jazz songs.

The only room he hadn't checked yet was his bedroom. But his doctor had no reason to be there.

Yet it was with a beating heart that the detective pushed open the dark wooden door. Between its sheets, a blond head protruded. John was sleeping soundly, his lips letting out a sigh from time to time.

Sherlock stood in the doorway. His brain was clearly trying to register the information. His cheeks turned pink, but he couldn't figure out why. Seeing his friend between his sheets, his hair disheveled, made his whole body temperature rise.