Happy For the Stranger (Johnlock)

3

I stand outside the wooden door, leaning against the wall and flipping through pictures on my phone, because I have nothing better to do.

"John." I hear a voice call, and my head snaps up to find Sherlock getting out of a cab and walking towards me.

"I never told you my name." i say quizzically. What is up with this guy?

He points at the doctor's lanyard that's still around my neck from work today, and I sheepishly tuck it into my pocket. He smirks and walks past me, opening the door to the flat. I watch his coat swoosh behind him as he climbs the stairs. When we reach the top he takes the coat off and hangs it on a coat hook.

The mess in the flat is astounding, and makes me immediately want to start tidying, or cleaning or just get the hell out of there!

But I don't say anything as Sherlock immediately begins rummaging around in the mess, obviously looking for something.

"Oh my god, he hid them again!" He screeches.

"What, what's wrong?" I say, beginning to look through the disgusting mess, even though I have no idea what I'm looking for.

"My cigarettes!" He approaches me and takes my face in both hands. "We must find them!" His face is unnaturally close to mine, but the thing is, I'm not uncomfortable, or weirded out. I'm nervous and I kind of want to pull my face closer....

No, John, you're not gay!

"Ok." I say, pulling my face away. "I'll help you look for them."

We search for a good half hour before he collapses on the couch in defeat and sighs. "You win Mycroft!" He gets up and look directly into the back of the bookshelf. "You fucking win!"

He collapses on the couch again and I'm still standing in the middle of the floor, wondering what the hell is going on.

"Well, are you going to bring your things in?" Sherlock mutters from the couch.

"Oh, uh, yeah, I guess." I say as I travel to the bottom of the stairs and bring my bags up to the empty room, beginning to maybe regret this decision.

When I come back down, Sherlock is no longer on the couch, but at the kitchen table, where beakers and containers are filled with acids, bubbling liquids and what seems to be body parts in marked plastic bags.

"Fancy some tea?" He says, offering a mug from the kitchen table, but when he looks inside it, he sets it down, and picks up the one next to it, and holding it out generously.

I politely decline, and set myself in the chair near the fireplace, reading the paper.

Time seems to pass quickly, Sherlock muttering to himself in the kitchen, and me reading the top stories until my eyelids get heavy and I have to retire to my bedroom, offering a hearty 'goodnight!' to Sherlock, and getting a murmur in response.

Settling myself under the covers I stare at the ceiling, wondering what I got myself into this time.