Chemical Disaster {JOHNLOCK}

Moving

"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!?" John yelled as he carried another pack of Sherlock's belongings upstairs.

"I'm sorry, what are you talking about?"

"This!" John said, holding up a bag filled with different kinds of specimens, varying from dead, ill-looking, to alive.

    "Oh. Those are for my experiments. Would you mind storing them in the fridge?"

    "Yes, actually. A LOT. I put food in the fridge, not animal corpses."

    "But it's going to smell terrible if you don't keep them in a cold place!"

    "Did you know bins existed?"

     "Yes." Sherlock replied, staring at John blankly, not comprehending what the doctor had implied.

     "That was a rhetorical question. It means: put your repelling, odious, nauseating little things in the trash can."

"But—"

"No buts! I accepted the explosives, skulls, chemicals and blood samples, but I have limits!"

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, and gave John a defying look. "Fine. I'll buy another fridge, then."

"You'll do no such thing!"

"I'll put it in my room if there's no space for it in the kitchen."

"About that, I'll sleep on the couch. You'll have my room. Therefore, you will most certainly not be putting a fridge full of dead creatures in it!"

Sherlock signed, vanquished. "Okay. I won't keep these in your house. Stay in your room though, I'll have the couch."

John sniggered. "You won't fit."

   " Yes, I am aware. If you had listened carefully, you would've noticed that I said I'll have the couch, and not I'll sleep on the couch."

    "But where are you going to sleep, then?"

    "Oh I don't know. On the floor? In the bath tub?"

     John made a face, "But that's—"

     "I was joking. You don't really expect me to sleep, do you? Such a waste of time."

Sherlock never saw anyone who was more like an open book than John. His emotions were unreservedly on display, constantly crafting his clean-shaven face into various expressions that told so much more than words. Right now, it was broadcasting perturbation and incredulity.

     "Uh, was that another joke? I can't ever tell if you're kidding or not."

     "Why would it be?" Sherlock asked, puzzled.

     "Well, most people wouldn't qualify sleeping as a waste of time."

     "Surely. But I'm not most people."

     "No shit, Sherlock." The moment after he let the words slip, John bit his tongue, cursing himself for being so uncensored. "Sorry. That was inappropriate."

     Sherlock chuckled, "Don't worry, I myself am quite famous for my indelicacy, but honestly, I think it's by far appropriate for you to call me by my first name, considering that I'm about to spend a decent amount of time at your place."

    John released a relieved sigh, and the two man exchanged smiles.

     "I thought you'd disapprove of swear words," John went on.

     "I don't mind them. It's just not my usual go-to for emotional release."

    "What is?" John asked, back to his therapist self.

    "My gun. I typically feel better after a few holes have been pierced in the ceiling, but sometimes I play the violin when I wish for an activity that is a bit more... calming."

    "Your way to release emotions is by firing a gun at your ceiling?" John questioned slowly, convinced that he must have misheard Sherlock's words.

    "Sometimes it's the wall."

John pressed his lips into a thin line.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing. Just, please don't do that to my wall. Or my ceiling. Or any other surface of my flat."

"I won't. Not now, when I have a case to work on. I only do it when I'm bored."

      "Remind me if I ever bore you. Wouldn't risk my ceiling." John said half jokingly.

      "You're not exactly boring."

      "Not exactly?" John repeated, unsure if he had just received a complement.

      "To be faire, you are actually sort of interesting, Dr. Watson."

      John felt a blush creep up his cheeks.

      "Call me John. Don't make me endure the awkwardness of being the only one using first names."

      Sherlock nodded and continued observing the surroundings. John made tea and they drank it slowly with occasional chatter. When he suddenly realized that they still hadn't made a sleeping arrangement, John took Sherlock's cup, deposited it in the sink next to his, and led him into his room.

     "John. I said I'm not going to sleep. Keep your room, really. Don't waste such a nice bed."

"You need to sleep, and you are going to sleep," John insisted.

"You can't force me."

John smile mischievously. "You know, Sherlock, I often help patients who have troubles to fall asleep. Most of the time we talk and I prefer avoiding medication, but melatonin can be remarkably effective."

As if on cue, Sherlock stifled a yawn.

"Give yourself some rest, you'll need your intellectual abilities at their best to solve this case."

Sherlock glared at him, but minutes later he fell asleep for the first time in days with a peaceful smile on his lips.