Hostage: A Johnlock Story

Chapter 1

Chapter 1: 

Nictotine

John Watson had just had a fairly rough day, as one might say. He had screamed at mentally deranged women in purple robes, avoided flying china plates hurtling towards him and had to calm down the hysterical fat man in his pajamas. This case, he decided, had been unlucky. Not to worry. He was looking forwards to a cup'a tea and a nice relaxing- he realized, as he walked up the door, 221B Baker Street, the knocker had been straightened. Oh god, John thought. 

John walked quickly up the stairs, his leg and cane struggling, and strained his ears for any shouting. 

He came to the top of the stairs and opened the door. Sherlock was lying down on the couch, his shirt pulled up with a white plaster covering just above the wrist. Mycroft was leaning against the dining room chair, hitting the couch with his cane. 

"For god's sake, brother mine. These nicotine patches are a weakness."  Mycroft said, irritated at Sherlock's icy silence. 

Sherlock turned his head, a cold frown fixed on his pale face.

"John, help me talk him out of it. It's a pathetic habit that has no purpose." Mycroft said theatrically. 

"If it doesn't matter, than why bother?" John sighed, putting his keys on his chair. "It's Sherlock, nothing you do will change his blasted mind anyway."

 John saw a ghost of a smile flicker on Sherlock's face. John was filled with a strange mixture of happiness and satisfaction. He walked into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. 

"Sherlock is being childish. He isn't talking to me." Mycroft said, hitting his cane against the couch.

"Not," Sherlock snapped back quickly. 

"Are too."

"Not." 

"See what I mean? I give up, brother mine. Besides," Mycroft smirked. "This is just temporary. You don't have case do you. Then you get bored." 

Sherlock sat up, his face calm but pulsing with hate. "Get out."

Mycroft half laughed, half snickered. He strode up to John. 

"Take care of him, hm?" Mycroft nodded at John and waved at them both while walking to the door. "Nice to see you John.  And Sherlock- do call me. I get news faster than you do. Could be a potential case." He smiled and left the room, shutting the door quietly.

"What was that about?" John asked Sherlock, as Sherlock lay back down in the soft, worn couch. John brought over two cups of tea and offered one to Sherlock. Sherlock accepted it, but didn't drink any. John sat down back in his armchair and sipped his tea.

"Sherlock?" John asked more kindly. John set down his tea and walked over to the couch. Sherlock lifted up his legs, making way for John to sit down. John took Sherlock's tea out his hand and replaced it with his. Sherlock's hand was warm and curled around his own. John took in a gasp of air. Sherlock's dark curls fell over his face, his eyes hollow and cheeks sunken. His cheeks were tinged pink and a shy smile played on his lips.  John felt his pulse quicken slightly. Sherlock's hand retracted, and his smile disappeared as quickly as it came. John felt a wave of disappointment wash over him, like a piece of him was lost. He didn't realize how much he missed Sherlock throughout the day. Sherlock turned around lay his whole body across the couch facing back of the sofa. John sat up, hurt and a little flustered.

"Sherlock, I-" John started. No response. "What's the matter?"

He tried again. "How many nicotine patches have you been taking?" 

Sherlock didn't turn around, but replied harshly, his voice a little too high pitched. "Nothing."

John tried to savor the feeling of his warm fingers,  but couldn't quite re-establish the moment. He shook his head and stomped to his room. He hated to end the night in such a terrible way. He knew Sherlock found it hard to forgive, and tomorrow, he was certain there would be tension.

Tomorrow, he thought, we'll find a case. Together.