Sherlock Imagines & One-Shots

STAGES (Sherlock) PART 5

Chapter Text

"No."

Sherlock stated bluntly.

John Watson growled, eyes narrowing as he glared at the child of a detective curled on the couch, huddled in his pajamas with a pout.

It was a bright day out, with a yellow sun and a grinning breeze, but Sherlock was having none of it. The blinds had all been shoved closed, cloaking 221b in a morbid shadow, leaving only the barest little sliver of light to stretch hopefully against the floor.

John groaned, swiping his hand down his face.

"You've been sulking for hours, Holmes! HOURS!"

"I haven't been sulking, I've been brooding." Sherlock mumbled, his retort muffled by the black leather of the couch.

John rolled his eyes. "Stop brooding, then."

"No."

John ran his tongue over his teeth, and you could almost feel the frustration seeping from his pores. He shook his head, tired of trying to convince the younger Holmes into being reasonable. John stalked over to his armchair, exasperated as he plopped down into the soft cushions. Sherlock didn't seem to notice- or care- about the sudden lack of effort, the only movement on his part the steady rising and falling of his chest.

John sighed, propping up his chin upon his palm, looking almost defeated.

Almost.

Not entirely, though. The doctor pulled up his laptop to his lap, opening up his blog and beginning to type. He glanced at Sherlock, who was still seemingly indifferent to the situation. John turned back to his screen, fingers tapping absently at the keys. And then, as nonchalantly as he could, he spoke. "Is this about Quinn?"

Sherlock shot up, his dark curls a ruffled mess as he stared at the shorter doctor, the latter of whom was doing his best to stifle the smile on his face.

"Caunter? Of course not. Why would this be about her? She's entirely irrelevant to the situation at hand, and thinking of her would be entirely illogical. Therefore, I'm not thinking about her. Obviously. That would be ridiculous. It's unnecessary, a waste of storage and time. Don't be stupid. Shut up." Sherlock huffed, very conscious he'd been rambling. He looked away, crossing his arms over his chest grumpily. And it was too dark to tell, but John was certain Sherlock's cheeks were redder than normal.

John's mouth twitched, looking back at his computer as the urge to snicker became overwhelming. "Okay, then." He said, unable to hide the amusement in his tone.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, his suspension mounting. "Why are you smiling like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like... stop laughing!" Sherlock's voice grew slightly louder, brows furrowed.

John swallowed it down a few chuckles, although his simper refused to fade.. "Sorry. It's just- nevermind. Forget it."

Sherlock scowled, still looking rather bothered. John payed him no further attention, eyes glued to the screen. Sherlock slowly leaned himself back on the couch, exhaling as his back his the seat. It was quiet again, besides the muted city ambience and the gently click of typing. Perhaps now he could finally concentrate without the unwelcome image of Quinn etched under his eyelids. She had been invading his thoughts and his focus, infiltrating his mind with stupid, stupid things that meant nothing for the past hour, and it had been driving him to the point where he was quite irritable.

Trival observations about the woman had suddenly popped up in Sherlock's mind palace uninvited, and it bothered him to no end. It was stupid things, things like her smile, and her laugh, and her voice, and her hair, and her eyes, and her smirk, and her banter, and her wit, and her cunning, and her everything.