John slowly shuffled into the kitchen, stumbled over a car jack, didn’t even wonder why they had one in the first place and switched the kettle on.
While he waited for the water to boil he went to hunt down the tea (somehow it migrated from day to day, probably one of Sherlock’s experiments on John’s out of the box thinking or something like that), found it stuffed behind the black rice that some client had sent them as a thank you from Thailand and turned towards the cupboard that held the mugs.
He closed his eyes in annoyance like he did every morning when he had forced Sherlock to clean the kitchen the evening before. Sherlock always retaliated by putting the mugs up on the highest shelf.
He raised himself on his toes, reached one of the mugs with his fingertips and pulled it down before dropping the teabag into it and pouring water over the bag.
John has always been small, even as a child. Most of the time he didn’t mind that much, that was just how things were.
On his tenth birthday his parents took him and a couple of his friends to a funfair. They were each allowed to eat a hot dog and some candy floss and John could choose all the rides they would go on. He loved the bumper car ride and the ghost train and everywhere they went he glanced at the huge rollercoaster, the ride he had been looking forward to the most and was therefore saving for last.
When they finally had only one ride left John pointed at the rollercoaster with a big grin. He really wanted to go there and was a little scared at the same time, but even as a child John was not one to back down from a challenge. In fact he thrived on them.
He wanted to go in last and waited until all his friends had passed the attendant, then stepped onto the wooden planks. Suddenly there was a hairy and muscular arm in his field of vision.
“You can’t go. You’re too short. Sorry, little man.”
John did not cry. He watched his friends on the ride scream with joy, his face straight, and the pain in his heart was like a grain of sand in the eye.
“Sherlock. Dammit! Slow down.”
He watched Sherlock run around the corner and tried to speed up, but Sherlock’s long legs really were an advantage here.
He saw Sherlock jump, reach the fire escape ladder with his fingertips and pull it down, then he climbed it up without glancing back to John.
“John, hurry up, we are losing him!”
The ladder swung back up and went out of reach the moment John arrived at the spot. No amount of jumping and stretching made up for the missing inches. His curse was heartfelt and loud.
There was a crashing noise from above and he cursed again, before he spotted the small rear door. It was locked and he slammed it open with his shoulder (the good one), then ran upstairs, taking two steps at a time.
On the second floor a door was suddenly yanked open and the suspect ran right into him. Lying on the ground, wrestling with the man, everything in his body hurting, he heard Sherlock say, “Well done, John.”
When he joined the army it was a running joke to ask him if he met the minimum height requirement. John was usually a good sport but that was one of the things he could not really laugh about.
Another curse he had been carrying since he was a teenager was that people did not take him seriously because of his height. No one trusted him to be brave enough, strong enough, fast enough, tough enough, good enough. He proved them all wrong and excelled at everything.
He was a good leader, always kept a clear head and his cool, was an excellent medic and never left anyone behind. The people that followed him did so with fierce determination.
When they left for Afghanistan, everyone wanted John in his troop.
Women either are shorter than him and think it’s cute that he is small (John is not small. John is short. He is anything but small. He isn’t cute either for that matter) or don’t date him because they are taller than him and don’t feel comfortable wearing heels.
Jeanette used to bring that up whenever they had a rough patch. That is all of the time.
Men usually just don’t care. They either fall for him because they see him for what he is or because they like his looks, including his height. Much easier in that regard.
John slowly shuffles into the kitchen, stumbles over a lance, doesn’t even wonder why they have one in the first place and switches the kettle on.
While he waits for the water to boil he goes to hunt down the tea (that still migrates from day to day, John still has no idea what Sherlock is trying to find out), finds it stuffed behind the eggs in the fridge (what?) and turns towards the cupboard that holds the mugs.
He closes his eyes in annoyance like he does every morning when he has forced Sherlock to clean the kitchen the evening before. Sherlock always retaliates by putting the mugs up on the highest shelf.
Before he can raise himself on his toes a warm body presses against his and Sherlock reaches past him, getting the mugs down for him. He gently places a kiss on John’s neck in the process then wanders off towards the bathroom.
John smiles and starts preparing two teas. While he waits for them to steep, he closes his eyes and ponders about the fact that with Sherlock he never minds his height.
Sherlock loves it, loves that he can stand behind John and rest his chin on top of his head (though Sherlock has to stretch for that, clearly John is not that much shorter than him), loves curling around the shorter body in bed, loves how John’s forehead is on the perfect level so that he can kiss it without having to bend down.
He loves that John has to stand on his toes to kiss him properly, loves that their lips are exactly on the same level when John straddles his lap, loves that their bodies seem to be made for each other, fitting in everything (though especially in bed), like two pieces of a puzzle.