Kleptomaniac (A Johnlock Fanfiction) [2015 Wattys Award Winner]

Chapter Nine

He smiles at his lampshades as he drinks in the taste of bourbon, every expression edged with a tang of alcohol. He's been watching films all day long, from Aladdin to The Little Rascals to Charlie Chaplin. There is nothing he would rather do than this; he's completely content with laying in his smelly bed with his shot glass and drinking it all to hell.

He can see the snow fall outside of his window, but he's not quite processing it. The click of heels as they rush up the steps are irrelevant, found on the basis of his current carelessness. All he wants to do is watch his damned movie.

Three rapid knocks click on wood. John lazily turns, his eyes droopy and blurred with the dragging restlessness of memories, and he takes a swig.

What is this?

Who the hell is knocking on his door?

John puts the drink down, whipping off his covers reluctantly and stepping onto the concrete floors. They're cold and unfriendly and uninviting, much like his mother. (Why did he rent this flat? It's awful.) After one contemplating second, he hastily wraps his robe around his body before stumbling out into the living room, and then into the chilly hallway that leads to the front door.

John looks in his peephole. Nothing.

He opens his door, slightly, searching the hallway, looking at the floors, the walls, his... doormat...

And a note.

There's just a note, sitting there. John's half expecting it to move. An elegant script is scratched upon the piece of stationery, and John drunkenly picks it up, squinting his eyes to read it as he retreats back into the cold safety of his flat.

John,

Hello.

-SH

John mumbles, gathering a pencil off a nearby cabinet, and hastily scribbles a response on the back.

Hi Sherlock

He shoves it under the doorframe, and awaits a response. He can feel the alcohol  bubble in his stomach a bit, but he doesn't care; he feels fine, fine, fine.

Sherlock pushes a note back, and John scrambles to get it. It says:

John,

Are you drunk?

-SH

John rolls his eyes, and writes something else.

No why would you think that

He pushes it under. Drunk? He's simply tipsy.

A response is sent back but twenty seconds later.

The drunk scrawl, the lack of punctuation - your flat smells of cheap bourbon and stale crackers, John. Honestly.

-SH

John stares at the note awhile, stares at the mixture of graphite and ink, stares at the letters that make words that make sentences. He suddenly feels angry. He feels angry at himself, his head, and the kid who's currently judging him without even staring at his war-drawn face, his rough grimace. "You're an ass, Sherlock Holmes!" He drags himself to his feet, slurring his sentences into one, trying to hide the low growl of his stomach. "An ass, that doesn't deserve... my... hossspitaletty."

Outside the door, Sherlock bites his knuckles to stifle the laughs that are pushing out of his mouth.

"And," John slurs, "you're fucking..." he trails off.