The Johnlock Book of One Shots

Tea Cup Kisses (@SuperWhoLockster)

        John scurried into the flat, shoving the door on the cold air that had chased him from the store, quickly trying to regain his breath. Panting for a moment anyway, he continued on into the flat, nodding a polite hello to Ms. Hudson on his venture.

        He lugged the grocery bags up the stairs, almost falling up them in the process. He was panting once again when he actually got to the door, but opened it with a steady hand. 

        He shut another door behind him once more, before walking along and taking a right to get into the kitchen. 

        Sherlock was there, (Of course) doing an experiment, his lanky figure bent over the table, a bag of fingers set beside him. Sherlock didn't spare him a glance as John heaved the bags into the table; his hands had been completely filled, not wanting to make a second trip. 

        "Did you get more milk?" Sherlock asked after a moment, not pausing from placing a pinky finger into an unknown substance. John watched as the chemical started to fizz over the jar, leaving nothing behind as it died down. 

        John closed his eyes and counted to five silently before opening them once again, only to see a look of satisfaction on Sherlock's face. Sherlock finally looked up after silence, his hands stilling as he waited for an answer. 

        John nodded. "Two."

        Sherlock spoke again, his voice much like the baritone instrument. "You might want to get some more tomorrow." 

        John didn't even groan, or blink, or even take another breath as he nodded, turning around to put the rest of the groceries away. He left the milk on the counter, but with a grunt from Sherlock, instead sat it beside the bag of fingers on the tabletop. 

        Turning around, John turned and left the kitchen, heading in the direction of the living room. He sat in his usual chair with a huff, leaning back to relax his aching muscles. 

        He sat there for a moment, and took everything in as he has done many times before. The telly, with dust covering it's whole self. Sherlock insisted that John didn't dust anything, because disturbed dust could tell you of intruders. 

        John agreed only reluctantly, sneezing now and again because of his allergies. John casually picked up the telly remote, lazily flicking through the channels. It was only after a very weird (something John never wanted to see again) channel did he immediately shut the whole thing off. 

        Sighing at how crappy the telly really was, John brought out a book to read, something he had been itching to start since he had visited the book store. 

        It was a story about another mans point of view about the same war John was in. John had been wondering if it differed in any way of his. 

        Did this man, the writer, recall memories of the blood? Did he see many of his friends die? Was he haunted by dreams of people he wasn't able to save, of friends that he doesn't remember? 

        Does he toss and turn at night because of the images, ones that have been burned into his brain, scarring any happiness coming from it?

        As John read, a frown appeared on his face. Within twenty pages, John was pursing his lips. 

        Within twenty five, John was angry. 

        Within thirty, John was fuming. 

        Slamming the book down onto the ground, John stopped and stared at it. The echo of it hitting the ground seemed to make the silence longer and louder, to where it was all John could think of.