So, it's been a while, I know. No excuses (beyond my stupid computer and our muck up). Just been real busy. But, I wanted to let y'all know I'm not quite dead yet. So, have another fun story with a weird prompt. And, Sherlock and John because, why not?
The Flying Detective -- an original work by Julie Lynn Thorpe (C) 2016
“An air mattress?”
“Shut up, Sherlock,” John muttered darkly. “It’s the best Greg could do on short notice, alright? Just go get ready for bed, I’ll blow the damn thing up.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the inflatable device before spinning out of the room and towards the bathroom. John rolled his eyes, but quickly found the pump and plugged it. Flipping the switch, the room filled with noise as the machine blew air into the mattress. A few minutes later, John switched it off and stored the pump somewhere out of the way.
“Bloody prat,” the doctor muttered as he stood and stretched, glancing around the DI’s flat. “His fault for nearly killing us with his damn experiments.”
“Miscalculation, John,” Sherlock snorted, coming back into the stare at their makeshift bed for the evening. “Won’t happen again. Are you sure he doesn’t have anything else?”
“You’re lucky you’re even getting that!” Greg snapped as he stormed in through the door. “Sorry you’ll have to share, but it really is the best I can do. Don’t trust the couch to hold either of you for long.”
“No, of course not. It’s nearly dead as is, you should purchase a new one.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose, eyes still fixed on the bed.
“Yeah, I’ll do that, when I win the lottery next.” The DI rolled his eyes. “I’m off. I’ll probably be back some point tonight, make yourselves at home.” He paused and glared at Sherlock, quickly making a correction. “John, you can make yourself at home. Keep him contained, yeah?”
John snorted but nodded his agreement. “I’ll do my best, mate.”
Greg nodded, hesitating only a moment more before darting out the door, leaving the two alone. John groaned and rubbed a hand across his face before muttering something about needing the loo.
He left Sherlock staring at the mattress, probably trying best how to proceed, but he didn’t care. No, he wanted to get as much of the damn stink off of himself as he could. He’d deal with Sherlock’s irritation at the mattress in a few minutes.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror and grimaced. God did he look tired. Worse, he looked tired and old. He felt it a bit, then, staring at himself. A man his age should not be running after murders and rapists and other criminals. It was at this point he was more than glad his leg was nothing more than a passing injury, real or not.
With a grunt, John tore his eyes away from his image and ran through his nightly rituals as quickly as he could. Exhaustion was pulling at him and he wanted to do nothing more than flop down into bed and let it pull him down.
Returning to the living room, he smirked as he noticed Sherlock had assumed his usual position of mock-prayer on one side of the air mattress. His eyes were closed, hands pressed together right under his lips, legs crossed at the ankles. It seemed the mighty detective could live with sleeping on the air mattress for one night after all.
John stumbled on his way over the bed, tripping over his own feet, and landed next to the taller man with a loud whump. The sudden impact of John forced the air from the mattress on his side to Sherlock’s, easily launching the other man into the air with a startled squawk. He flailed wildly as he flew, landing on the ground and his backside with a thump.
“What the hell was that?” Sherlock demanded, sitting up. His hair was in disarray and his cheeks were pink.
John struggled to hold in his laughter, but couldn’t the longer he stared at Sherlock. “God, you should have seen your face!”
“John!” Sherlock snapped.
“I’m sorry,” John said between laughs, wiping away the tears that slipped out. “It was an accident, I swear! Just so tired and I stepped wrong and tripped. I didn’t mean it.”
“Is it going to be like this every time one of us gets on or off this stupid thing?”
“No.” At Sherlock’s skeptical look, John sighed. “I promise. I won’t get up and fall back down and if you get back on carefully, I won’t go flying either.”
“Hardly doubt I could send you off that high,” Sherlock muttered darkly, crawling back onto the air mattress as carefully as he could. “You obviously have me at a disadvantage there.”
“Oi!” John snorted. “No fat jokes!”
“Hardly, John, just pointing out that you are, in fact, built differently than I and would find launching me far easier than I would be at attempting to do the same to you.”
“Might have a better chance if you ate more,” John muttered, rolling onto his back and closing his eyes. “G’night, Sherlock.”
“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed, resuming his previous position. “Goodnight, John.”
