Sherlock was bored.

He was sat in his chair, knees drawn up to his chin, utterly unimpressed with life. Everything was dull and horrible, and everyone was being stupidly, completely, unforgivably boring.

Lestrade had called with very nearly a nine, but by the time Sherlock had arrived at the yard, Mycroft had infuriatingly shown up and swept the entire case inside his hideously monogrammed suitcase, and what’s more, Lestrade had let him. Had allowed Mycroft to use words like classified and beyond the scope of an amateur. As if anything were beyond Sherlock’s scope; as if he were anything remotely like an amateur

Lestrade had really been much more fun before he’d started dating Sherlock’s insufferable brother.

Sherlock sighed. Bored.

John. Where was John again? Some completely stupid place he obviously ought not be. A medical conference in Belgium, he thought; Sherlock couldn’t remember which city, but the point was it was somewhere other than 221B, and that was unacceptable. 

Sherlock felt the side of his mouth lift, just a little. John. John had called him the night before, from his hotel room in Brussels or Antwerp or Liège, had told Sherlock he was bored, implied that there was nothing more interesting in the whole of Belgium for John to do other than ring Sherlock and hear all about the progression of his topsoil experiment, listen as Sherlock railed against Mycroft’s insipidity and Lestrade’s pathetic infatuation. John had stayed on the phone with him for hours, and, yawning audibly, had rung off, promising to call the next night, at the same time.

Sherlock checked his watch: 5:27. Only two hours and three minutes until John. He felt his face warm slightly at the prospect. What would John want to talk about tonight, he wondered. He could tell him about the interesting spores that seemed to be growing along the grout on the tile underneath the bath, but he suspected John might disapprove of that. 

You could tell him you miss him, he thought, out of absolutely nowhere. You could tell him how not-boring he is, how nothing will be exciting until he comes back. Sherlock’s cheeks grew hot. You could tell him, you know.

Sherlock tried to imagine it. Telling John about how he knew every strand of brown and gold and grey on his head, the exact proportion of each shade to the others; how he knew John’s eyes darkened when he was angry, and were a full, true sort of blue when they glittered with excitement; how he thought John’s small, capable hands seemed the exact size and shape for Sherlock to cradle gently in his own. 

Just then, his mobile buzzed in his pocket.

This lecture is so boring. You’d hate it. -JW

And then, twenty seconds later:

Wish you were here. -JW

Sherlock blinked, and the flush on his face deepened. He pressed his forehead forward against his knees, hid the grin he couldn’t quite manage to control as he realised, John misses you too.


Pictures posted with permission from Kelley. Source: (x)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KELLEY! I hope you’ve had the most wonderful, spectacular, well-deserved day! You’re a gift to this fandom and a joy to know, and I’m proud to call you a friend. x <3