Skinny Love (Johnlock)

A Perfect Fit

Enjoy

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Skinny Love

A Perfect Fit

The scientists were able to get John into a stable condition, but he was still unconscious. Sherlock sat in a chair outside his room, staring at the ring in the small velvet box. His hair was unruly, and his shirt unbuttoned. He hadn't eaten for what seemed like days, when in fact, it had only been a few hours. Agent Matthews was interrogating the murderer again, trying to make him confess and say where the antidote was, but it was obvious taking another life didn't mind him at all. Sherlock rolled the ring around in between his fingers. He wandered into the rather large section of his mind palace labeled John. This room is for his quirks, this one for the way he looks, this one for the way he talks, this one for the way he thinks. Yes, now that Sherlock thought about it, the signs were all there. John had seemed rather nervous and excited for the baseball game. But he never got the proposal he planned. If John survived, they were getting married as soon as possible. Something might happen again. And Sherlock wanted to be his. He slid on the ring, it fit perfectly. A small tear rolled down his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut, this was no time for crying. Sherlock put back on his suit, he needed to be with John.

*

John looked so frail. His cheeks and eye sockets had sunken in, and the skin around his eyes was a dark mahogany. His skin was a pale green, and shiny with sweat. His head dangled to the side. Sherlock went over to adjust him so he'd be more comfortable. He sat down in a chair beside the bed.

"How much more time, doctor?" he asked Dr. Berns.

"Four hours." She replied solemnly. Sherlock draped his arms over John and laid his head on his chest. Suddenly, there was a loud bang as Agent Matthews shoved someone into the chamber for putting on your suits. The door was glass, so you could see everything going on, just not what they were saying. Agent Matthews muffled shouts quietened when he pointed to John in the next room. The other man was the murderer, and Sherlock could tell he was shaken up by the appearance of his soon-to-be next victim. Sherlock stood up, a plan formulating in his highly developed brain. He grabbed a syringe full of simple antibiotics on his way out and tucked it into his sleeve.

*

When he walked into the changing room, Agent Matthews' yelling grew quiet. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"His name is John Watson and he's a good man, a brave man and I-" Sherlock's voice cracked,

"-I love him. And you know, he's done nothing to deserve this. What if this was someone you love, would you let them die like this? Please help him. He knows the worst of me and has still forgiven me, so please don't take him away." Sherlock looked at the floor. He wanted to cry, but he had no tears left.

The scientist paused. He was thinking about it. He said quietly, "I want a lawyer." Sherlock knew that his speech might not work if the man was a homophobe, so he used plan B.

"We were unable to recreate the antidote, but we could cultivate the virus from the needle stuck in the body." Sherlock held up the syringe.

"What are you doing?" Agent Matthews said.

"I just want him to know what's happening." Sherlock took off the cap and plunged it into the man's neck. "Maybe now you'll tell us where the antidote is."

*

John woke up to Sherlock packing their bags. "Sherlock-" he croaked out.

"Oh, John," Sherlock dropped the article of clothing in this hand and pounced onto the bed. He snuggled up to John and squeezed his tight. "Please don't ever do that again."

"I love you too." John smiled and stroked Sherlock's hair. "Why are you packing?"

"I decided that I'd like to get back to the comfort of flat 221B for now before anyone else contracts a flesh eating virus."

John laughed, "I'd like that too."

*

John mostly slept for two days upon their return to London, and Sherlock took no cases. He rather enjoyed taking care of John. John woke up to smoke coming from the kitchen, he flung the covers off of himself and ran out of their bedroom. Sherlock poked his head out of the kitchen and smiled at his flatmate.

"Sherlock, what the hell?" John rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

"I'm making lunch, but the oven doesn't seem to be working." John walked into the kitchen and pulled the now burnt pizza out of the oven.

"It helps if you take it out first before it burns." He sighed.

"Oh. Well since we don't have any other food, would you like to go out for lunch?"

"Sure." The two grabbed their coats and headed out for lunch.