Johnlock One-shots

322.John's Box

He's the most brilliant thing, really. It's sometimes alarming what he can do with that clever mind of his. Sometimes, I get sort of scared. Of what? That Sherlock may one day become too famous and well known to need a little ol’ assistant like me.

He likes treating me nicely, though. I'm always standing beside him when he is the rudest to other people, and I always realise that he is never that mean to me. He laughs with me and treats me like a dear friend, which is pretty great.

I know Sherlock will never leave me, even though a portion of my mind will always think that. But we've become too attached. He likes having me, and I like having him around, too. Well, maybe like isn't the right word. We definitely do love each other's company.

Sometimes, I wonder if it's more than just the company that we love about each oth--

“Sherlock!” John shouted. Sherlock jumped, scrambling to shove the notebook back into an old box and close the closet door, where the box was hidden. He wasn't sure if that would count as a diary or not, but God, did it have some juicy information. John appeared in the doorway of his room, looking at the detective who stood in the middle, hands behind back, big smile on his face.

“Why, hello, John.” He said.

“What are you doing in my room?” John put his hands on his hips and stared at Sherlock.

“I missed your scent.”

“My scent?”

Sherlock glanced around the room. He had no idea where this excuse was going. “Yeah, the…” He gestured to John. “The way you smell.”

“Why would you miss that?” John asked, crossing his arms.

“Because you smell like really good friend.” Sherlock tried to walk past. John stopped him. Sherlock smiled even wider. “And tea, and honey.”

“Don't come back in my room. This is the third time I've caught you in my room.”

Sherlock sighed. “Sometimes, I just--”

“'I was thinking, I didn't realise where I was going.’” John was doing an impression of Sherlock. “'I believe crucial evidence to the Miss Heming's murder may have been planted in your room.’” He looked up at Sherlock. “'I missed your scent.’”

“Oh, wow, really sounds like things I would say! Alright, bye!” Sherlock hurried off, running down the stairs. John watched as his coat disappeared around the corner.

He was hiding something.

-----

--other. I really like him. I can't imagine Sherlock Holmes liking me back. God, I feel so stupid writing this down on paper… but yes, I'm accepting it full on. I'm in love with Sherlock. Now, that doesn't mean I'm going to tell him. He won't like it. He'll probably freeze, the way he always does in moments like that. I don't want him to think I'm weird.

I mean, what if he's… you know… straight? I think he made it quite clear at our first time at Angelo's together, that he was gay. “Females? Not really my area.”

I mean, that's basically translated to, “Yep. I'm gay.”

Right?

Either way, Sherlock doesn't need to know I love him. It'll just be chaos.

Gosh, how embarrassing things would be if he ended up reading this… like, when I died maybe. I'm alive right now. He can't read these entries while they're in my box.

I love that box.

“End of entry?” Sherlock whispered. It just ended with, 'I love that box’?

He flipped, but there were no more entries in the notebook. He pulled out the box and started looking through it.

“Oooh~” Sherlock pulled out John's old military uniform. “Cute…” He imagined John wearing it, and couldn't help the tingles that ran through his body.

He set the uniform aside, looking through. He picked up an empty looking beer bottle, that came from quite awhile ago. As he picked it up, he realised something was inside. He frowned, popping it open and slipping out a paper. It was a note.

Dear Brother,

I know this is really difficult for you, but I want you to hang in there. Sherlock may have died, but you always have me. I know you're not fond of me, or my addiction to alcohol, as that has always plagued our family your entire life. I'm proud of you. You're the only non-alcoholic, John. You're the only stable one. Oh, well, you were. Please stop drinking. I know you're depressed, but Sherlock would want you to move on.

I love you. Call me sometimes.

Sincerely, Harry Watson

Sherlock smiled. That was sweet. He rolled back up the paper and put it back in the beer bottle, continuing to look around. His cane was in the box, a deerstalker hat, a dozen or so of the gifts Sherlock had received and tossed to John, and a few more sentimental items. Sherlock frowned and reached in, pulling out a sticky note.

Don't give up, Watson. You've been through a lot, but don't give up. Keep on living.

It was written in John's handwriting. Sherlock smiled softly.

Suddenly, for the first time ever, he felt like he was really invading someone's privacy. He stood up and put everything back neatly.

As he was picking up the military uniform, he heard a voice that made him jump.

“Sherlock… What the hell are you doing?!”

Sherlock felt his anxiety raise up to his neck within an instant. “I was recording how the stimulant of--”

John grabbed Sherlock by his shirt. “What were you doing?” He growled.

Sherlock braced himself for a beating. “I'm sorry…”

“What did you see?”

Sherlock bent down and picked up the uniform. In a split second decision, he pushed it into John's chest and blurted out, “I think you would look REALLY sexy in this!!”

John's cheeks went pink. “Wha--” Sherlock scurried off.

A few minutes later, while Sherlock was sitting in his chair, he felt John's hand on his neck. He looked up, and there John was, full military uniform.

“You think I'd look sexy?” John asked.

Sherlock couldn't speak. He nodded after a moment. John smirked, brushing Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock tried to look away, but it was impossible. John looked amazing.