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

Chapter Twenty-One

"Oh, God, John." He says it like it's being stretched out of his mouth. Like a piece of bubblegum. "John."

"Mrmphhhph," he responds, annoyed. "What, Sherlock." Sleepy, steel colored eyes dart to the analog clock, and a strong hand fights its way from out of the covers and wraps itself around Sherlock's abdomen. "Bed. Sleep. Now."

Sherlock attempts to move, but he can't. He hadn't anticipated John being so strong - he can feel muscle ripple against the cloth of his tee.

"But - John - we have to visit the fair, John, today's Tuesday, don't you understand-"

"No, Sherlock, it's sodding 3:30 and the fair doesn't begin until 9. Please. Go. To. Sleep."

"I can't-"

"Don't. Care." John groans into the pillowcase as he violently tugs down on Sherlock's collar in a movement that is much too hard to be playful. "I mean it, now," he enthuses.

"But John," Sherlock says-

"'But John' nothing. I was an army official, not a goddamned farmer-"

"It's a beautiful morning, John, get your lazy fucking arse out of bed and come-"

"So help me God, Sherlock. Shut up and lie down."

"I don't want to."

"Since when has '3:30 in the morning John' cared?" John then snaps his eyes closed, and buries himself under three layers of decaying blankets. "Fuck off."

Sherlock is not one to give up. But he does. At least until John falls asleep.

***

He makes a chart. It's on a whiteboard that's no longer white - John used to sketch landscapes on the small white display. Now Sherlock writes graphs and algebra equations along the sides, erasing them and redoing them to make sure they're correct.

"Sherlock's money," it says, and "John's money." Under "John's money," it says 319.21£. Under Sherlock's, it says 8,678.93£.

In screaming capitals: "WE OWE TWO-THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED FIFTY SEVEN POUNDS AND SIXTY THREE PENCE." It's circled in poppy red felt tip multiple times, a bright star scribbled above it. A proposal is underneath in smaller letters, ones that don't scream quite as loudly. In a short, hurried paragraph, it details a plan. Not really a plan, per se, more the lack of one. The skinny of it is: Sherlock's going to pay the rent. There's a lot of problems with that, though. Only one, really. But to John, there's exactly 8,678.93.

Knowing this, even, Sherlock has run through all the scenarios several times in his head and has realized, over a matter of seconds, that there are only three ways to go about this.

They can pay with Sherlock's money, they can pray at length and hope for a miracle, or they can wait to be kicked out - and Sherlock is not letting John settle at his flat. Not a fucking chance in nine layers of hell.

So, when he wakes up, Sherlock holds the whiteboard sign in front of John's bedroom door until he is forced to brush his teeth and look at it. John's eyes aren't furrowed at first; they calmly skim over the words. Until he hits the paragraph.

"John,

You have no money to pay the rent, and despite your attempts to get a job, the money you get from your pension can hardly pay for milk, never mind an entire flat."

His brow forms a tight, furrowed line, and he darts his tongue across his lip as he keeps on going, obviously growing more and more angry with every word.