The umbrella (Johnlock)

Chapter seven.

Ptss sorry i haven't posted anything for a week, I've been in prague for the vacation.

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None of the people that followed my blog knew about me and Sherlock. Of course I had heard about something called "shipping", and how people where shipping Sherlock and I, but I didn't quite grasp the concept of it. Wanting someone to be together so much that you spend day and night thinking about it? I guess it wouldn't sound as weird if it was wanting yourself to be together with a person. But that's not how it works with "shipping", apparently. 

Sherlock and I hadn't slept together since that one night. Even though we saw each other every day, spoke and went to crime scenes together, I missed him. He had become distant. Like when we used to speak together he always payed attention to what you said, so that he could come with the cleverest answer possible. But now it was like he was gone. He was standing right in front of me, yet he seemed so, so far away.

Sometimes I even had to snap him out of his own head, to make sure he was listening. Most of the times he just looked at me, like he was mad and said "Yes John, I'm here" or " John don't snap at me, that's terribly annoying" and I just went with it. But it had been a long time since Mycroft had passed, and now I almost felt guilty for getting the feeling that Sherlock was getting on my nerves. I wanted to shout at him for being a baby about it. I wanted to slap him for being ignorant when I tried to socialize with him. But all those things came from a place that was the opposite of me. John Watson, the consulting detectives right hand. More like the consulting detectives rock now.

Next morning I woke up to the sound of rain pouring down outside. Sherlock was probably out walking. I pulled the covers off, and sat up on the side of the bed. I noticed the door was slightly open although I closed it yesterday evening. And on the doorknob the umbrella was hanging. 

He was at home?

That would be the first time in 6 months, that he wouldn't have gone out whilst it was raining. Odd.

"Sherlock?" I shouted. 

"John?" Sherlock's voice yelled back in the exact same tone. He did that sometimes to mock me, and I always found it utterly annoying. I grabbed my robe, pulled it on and ran downstairs. 

"It's raining.." I said as I walked in the kitchen. I pressed the little button on top of the kettle to make the water boil. Tea would make me wake up properly. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, only he had moved it so that it faced the window.

"I'm aware." Sherlock answered. He was sitting with his legs up in the chair, and with his arms in front of his mouth. He was wearing his sheet, and again, only his sheet.

"And you aren't wearing any pants...?" I mumbled, when I looked through the cabinet to find a mug that wasn't too filthy.

"Nice deduction there John. Would you care to make me a cup of tea too?" He said, in a ironic tone, that made me want to punch him in the face.

"Yes, Sherlock, I'd be happy to."

I waited for reply. 

Nothing.

"And your welcome" I then said after a little while. He waved his right hand around, like if he really didn't care much that I took the time to take one more mug, pour hot water in it, place a teabag in the hot water and carry it over to him. I know I wasn't saving the world by doing that, but a "thank you" would have been much appreciated. 

"Why was I being a tit about it?" I asked myself with a thought as I searched for the other mug in the cabinets. "Maybe because he's being a tit, and he has acted like that for half a year now. Well at least more than usual" I answered myself with another thought.

No more.

I smacked the cabinet loud, so that it made Sherlock look over his shoulder. He looked out the window again. "John what are you doing?" He asked calmly. I was mad now. I made my hands into fists and squeezed. I walked over in front of Sherlock with loud steps. I was desperate to make it very clear that I was so done with his bullshit. He had acted like if he had gotten the news about Mycroft one hour ago, for six months now. And at first it was okay, but now he had to stop.

"Sherlock, get up now."

"What for?"

"Get. Up. NOW." I commanded. He rose very slowly holding his sheet around his waist with his left hand. I forgot how much taller he was than me. But that didn't stop what I had in mind.

I slapped him with my right hand. My strongest hand. Clearly he wasn't prepared for it, so he looked very startled. He held his right hand up and touched the side of the cheek I had slapped, wich was now an alarming shade of red.

"You have to move on Sherlock! I know he meant a lot to you, but life goes on! You can't keep on like this! You are going to end up being depressed if you don't snap out of it!  It's going to take time, effort and it's going to hurt, but you have to! And you should have started a long time ago. And I'm sorry for slapping you, but it seems to be the only way I can get through to you-"

He didn't let me finish before he pulled me in for a kiss. His hands where behind my head, pushing me into the kiss, so that even if I didn't want the kiss, I wouldn't could pull out. I felt the texture of his lips. The feeling of my tongue against his, swirling around. I had missed it so much.

Wait, his hands?

Both of his hands!?