Chapter Text
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"Clearly taking 15 west to 95 was wrong. I did tell you to take a cabbie..." Sherlock nagged John as the road to the airport became lost of view.
"Just hold on, okay?! I'll just make a U-turn somewhere around here-"
"There. U-turn, now!"
John and Sherlock jolted to the right as John turned left, quickly obliging to Sherlock's request. John heard the light tap as head hit glass, worriedly looking over to Sherlock.
"Well, it was your fault, you said to turn-"
"Not so sharply! I almost broke my...I could've been seriously injured..." Sherlock muttered, rubbing the side of his head.
John tried hard to focus solely on the road, but kept glancing at Sherlock. Even if it was through pain, Sherlock looked quite, interesting in a sort. Running his slim fingers through his black locks. John coughed uncomfortably and focused back on the road.
"Plus, I don't trust cabbies anymore,"
"John, please, it's very improbable to have another cabbie that murders his customers for a living pick us up, let alone drop us off."
John let out a breath, raising his four fingers from the steering wheel and back again.
"Shit-Sherlock, can you check if I brought my phone? It should be In the back, somewhere."
"You did, it's In your top shirt pocket."
John sighed in relief as he placed a hand on his pocket to feel the hard sturdy glass. Just as he did so, as if by coincidence, a light hum could be heard and a light shown from it, contrasting deeply with the late evening luminous. John pulled his phone out quickly looking at who had texted at such a late hour.
"It's from Greg. Tell him I'm driving, will you?"
John handed the phone to Sherlock, reacting by picking it from his grasp and sliding the open bar.
"Oh, password is-"
"I know." Sherlock muttered as the phone opened to show a home page.
"How did you-Ungh, never mind."
Sherlock Smirked and looked back down to stare right at a picture of himself. John's background was a picture of them at a holiday party. Sherlock gave a questioning glance over to John. With no immediate intermission, he tapped texts and responded to Lestrade quickly with skill of the 'human era' he called it. Soon, he pressed the home button to see a tab labeled 'Sherlock'.*Tap.* Up popped up numerous photos of him, including the ones from a drunk night he was not officially proud of. He pressed the home button again, clicking the top to shut it off. IPhone 5 then, Hm? Sherlock flipped the phone over in his grasp. He caressed it with his finger, figuring out thirteen deductions about it right there. Sherlock handed the phone back to John, who graciously took it in turn. Sherlock's fingertips brushed across John's pulse; Sending skittering prickles across John's body as he pushed his phone back in place.
Lately, the attraction had increased, with numerous glances and light taps. John had held the urge to just hold him down and shove his tongue down his throat so far he could never make a deduction again without looking over to John with need in his gray-blue-green eyes. But he had to think of consequences. Obviously one being, Sherlock wasn't interested.
"You're going to miss our turn if you don't pay attention to the road."
John snapped out of his little pleasure coma and nodded curtly.
"Sorry-"
"No need," Sherlock summarized, glancing at his watch, "We can always go to The Bahamas next year."
John looked to his watch to see the time clearly read 9:07PM, 23 minutes to catch their flight. John cursed silently and sped up, turning into their exit.
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Three minutes. Lucky, they were. Three minutes to spare before they missed their island getaway. Well, not exactly. It was for a case, you see. Also, they did miss the flight, because it never took off. You see, the plane had broken down, and with no other alternative, they had announced it on the live speaker, blaming it on the weather. John sighed, angry. Angry at the plane, angry at himself, angry at Sherlock.
"Well, what Do we do, then?"
"The plane'll be up by tomorrow, don't wanna risk paying customers asking For their money back. Did you bring your luggage?"
"Yes, of course I did."
"Not the luggage itself, the case files in them."
Oh you meant the case files that took up half his luggage and made him reduce his clothes to a bear back state?
"Yes, want to look at them?"
"If you wouldn't mind. Either way, it's not your right to ask me to use the files or not, they're not yours."
They're not yours either, you lanky git.
John handed him the Manilla folders and zipped his luggage back up.
"Why didn't you bring your own-"
"Luggage? To much time, hassle, money, dull." Sherlock muttered as he became engulfed in thought.
The case: A man was found outside his flat door last night, face down. Dead. Killed by the bullet lodged in his heart. Yes, that was the easy part. But who had killed him? Master assassin? No, the work to sentimental to Do so. He dismissed the thought from him with a gesture of his hands. Wife? No. The clothes he wore showed he was divorced, clearly. Ex-wife? No. Far to easy. Lover? No.
With every disposition of each theory, Sherlock became more and more agitated. Soon though, he stood with enthusiasm and dismissed his mind palace. He turned to John to begin to explain his thoughts when he realized, John was asleep. Obviously, his eyes closed, his breathing a little to raspy coming out to a snore. Bad airways. He hadn't even realized they'd sat down. Sherlock had studied that face before so many times, but somehow, he couldn't help but look over it again. The lines of laughter and stress traced deep lines Into his face. He could imagine John's laugh, gruffly gentle. The bridge of his nose showed signs of glasses at an early age. His Afghanistan tan. All the above resulted in, John. Sherlock's John.
Before he knew he was doing it, Sherlock was kneeling right In front of John, trying to examine him closer. With the great dramatization in detail, Sherlock saw every aspect of human, mad he was. John, absolutely mental. That's why Sherlock liked him. Sherlock traced a line down John's hand with his fingernail, as it trying to mark him in a way so only he would know. He placed his hand over John's, smirking at the skin color difference. John murmured gibberish in his sleep, probably caused by a dream relating to modern fantasies. Sherlock turned John's hand slowly, resting it on it's back. Sherlock lay his hand flat against John's. Upside down, as it was, Sherlock felt the grip tighten and watched John's fingers curl against Sherlock's. Sherlock was merely intrigued. The body tends to react on its own while it slept. Before he knew it, he was sitting in the chair next to John, leaning over the metal handle, still holding his hand.