Chemical Disaster {JOHNLOCK}

Baker Street

A few days after Jeff Hope's arrest...

"Sherlock!" John threw his hand up in the air, partly to point an accusatory finger at the crater embedded in the ceiling, but mostly to expel his frustration. "You just got me kick out of my flat by my landlord because of your experiments with explosives which made a hole in the ceiling, so if you'd be so kind as to shut up for five seconds, that would just be marvelous."

John was granted with exactly five seconds of silence before Sherlock started talking again. "Well let's hope landladies have a higher tolerance of my behavior than landlords."

"I don't compute."

"I found us another flat. With a landlady this time. Actually an old acquaintance of mine." Sherlock watched as John's face went from confusion to surprise, his eyebrows jumping high into the sky. "Mrs. Hudson, that's her name. Her husband was responsible for a double-murder in Florida. I helped for the trial."

   "So you're finding us a flat?" John was beaming.

  "Isn't that what normal couples do, get a house together?" Sherlock mused, his voice interweaving threads of disgust with a certain degree of respect for tradition, something only he could master.

  John scoffed, "Two blokes together, one bisexual with PTSD and the other fascinated by corpses, and you call that normal?"

   "Oh John, would you stop pissing us all with your heteronormativity?"

"What about corpse-obsession-normativity? Aren't you going to say anything about that?"

Sherlock eyebrows plunged downwards, "We really should find something more useful for you lips to do. Shut up and kiss me on the lips."

    John cocked his head to one side,"Kiss you?"

    "Yes, kiss me, on the lips. Didn't you hear me?

    "I always hear kiss me on the lips when you're around, but it's usually subtext."

     "Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock inclined his head, his arms lunging at John, encircling him and tightening like shoes laces being tugged at. Burying himself in the embrace, his lips soaked by John, Sherlock drowned in the kiss the doctor returned avidly. Little spikes of adrenaline tingled everywhere, his rushing blood spreading the hormone at a speed increasing alongside his heart rate. Sherlock's lips bathed in John's saliva as John's lips kept moving against his, slamming repeatedly the way ocean waves collapsed on seashores without break. Sherlock tried to catch his breath in the middle of the unrelenting ocean, but as soon as he emerged, another wave wrapped around him, submerging him as saline water lost its weight-carrying density. Sherlock let the ocean current carry him, his lips swimming submissively in accordance to John's rhythm until he had to pull away. Sherlock filled his aching lungs with fresh air."Thank you John, that was—" Sherlock began, but John clutched his shirt and dived for his lips, sinking the detective back into an ocean of deep kisses. The crave for oxygen burned Sherlock's lungs. He wasn't sure whether it was the need for air or John's giddying kisses that tuned him into a marshmallow, but Sherlock knew for certain that if he didn't breath in the next five seconds, his legs would give out and he would faint. Sherlock broke the kiss. "Okay, I think that's enough now." He gasped, panting.

Eyes landing on the swell at Sherlock's upper lip, a pink bump eclipsing his cupid bow, John smirked. His cheeks were flushed, the pale expanse of snow sprinkled with cherry blossom to match the rosy tint of his lips. "You want to remember, Sherlock, I have really efficient lungs."

"You're a doctor! You're not suppose to send me into coma by sucking all the oxygen out of me!" Sherlock said, still catching his breath.

"I was a soldier. I killed people."

"You were an army doctor!!"

"I had bad days!"

Sherlock inhaled a few extra relieving gulps of air before commenting stubbornly, "Well I sincerely hope this is not how you'd perform mouth-to-mouth. Not very effective for resuscitation, if you ask me."

"You're a git" John retorted teasingly, poking Sherlock's navel with his index finger.

Born a drama queen, Sherlock let his lungs flatten, rushing air out of his trachea exaggeratedly while he squeezed his hands to his chest, feigning offense... only to regain composure and shoot back in the most blatant way: "Only very occasionally."

They both broke into a fit of laughter, the sound escaping Sherlock's vocal chords a low foundation for John's harmonious chortling to build on.

When he could finally walk again without fearing bending in half, his hand pressed tight to his stomach while he sent giggles everywhere, Sherlock handed John his coat and shrugged his own on, flipping the collar up.

"Let's fix the flat problem, shall we?"

*

221B was a very cozy flat: auburn parquet floor blanketed with cushiony carpets, a mellow fireplace encased by a pitch black mantelpiece, outmoded wallpaper affixed to a section of the otherwise green wall and two welcoming armchairs as company for the couch at the other side of the room.

    "Much nicer compared to your flat"

     John sneered, "I wonder who spread the mess and—" He stopped, afraid that if he said made a hole in the ceiling, Mrs. Hudson would be reluctant to rent them her house. "Also there was a cup of eyeballs in the microwave. Care to explain?"

     "It's an experiment" Sherlock retorted, the phrase you wouldn't understand floating tacitly around them.

     John found Sherlock's behavior too adorable to be annoyed. The way he'd said it's an experiment was exactly how young John argued with his parents after eating a whole box of toffee, claiming that it had simply vanished by magic, that he most definitely wasn't at fault.

    Mrs.Hudson led them to the kitchen, where John glimpsed a set of knives and immediately thought of all the nightmarish specimens Sherlock would keenly dissect with the sharp steel. Apart form that there was a clean kitchen counter, and the cabinets were very orderly. The sink was immaculate, and as for the refrigerator... IT WAS NOT MONOPOLIZED BY BLOODY MATTER AND THERE WAS ACTUALLY SPACE FOR REAL FOOD!!!

    John nodded satisfyingly, "See, Sherlock? That's how a fridge is supposed to look like."

   Sherlock's eyes follow the tacks of a roller coaster and completed a fine vertical loop. 

     Walking past the bathroom, Mrs. Hudson showed them the bedroom. The double bed wore ironed sheets that were so white they must've reflected all the particles of the light spectrum, and from them emanated a comforting smell of laundry detergent.
  
"There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two." Mrs. Hudson offered, looking between Sherlock and John knowingly.

    Sherlock directed an interrogative eyebrow at John, whose brows raised equally to return the same unspoken question, a meek smile divulging that whatever Sherlock's preferences were, it was all fine.

Perhaps in another lifetime John would have answered of course we'll be needing two, but looking sideways to see a warm and loving, somehow innocent yet playful smile moulding Sherlock's lips, John simply nodded and said, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."