spirit cold ➙ writings

nocturne vienna.

Nocturne Vienna!

SUMMARY; In which there is only one bed. John panics. Sherlock does not. Quite ordinary, really.

PROMPT; Forced to share a bed + building a wall of pillows.

PAIRING(S); Sherlock Holmes/John Watson.

TRIGGER WARNINGS; They are gay and stupid.

NOTE(S); these two are adorable and writing for them makes my perpetual anxiety diminish slightly, so i'm grateful for the opportunity. this is the longest johnlock content i've written so far, evening out at approximately 4.9k words, so i hope you enjoy!

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"There's only one bed."

"Brilliant deduction, John. I'm astounded you've never struck out on your own."

Resisting the urge to punch Sherlock in the face was significantly difficult, especially as the subtext only seemed to grow stronger over the years. John dropped their luggage — yes, all of their luggage, as Sherlock refused to carry any of his own belongings — near the door of the hotel room. He looked at Sherlock, texting rapidly on his iPhone. He looked at the bed, placed intimidatingly in the middle of the room. Then back at Sherlock.

No reaction. None. As if this was perfectly normal.

"Right. All right. There's only one bed, and two of us, and that's fine, is it?"

"I know it's fine."

Resistance was growing in difficulty. John stared at Sherlock in disbelief before realizing that perhaps he shouldn't feel as much disbelief as he actually did. Sherlock was prone to misunderstanding basic social constructs, or simply not caring about them. Why would sharing a bed be any different? It wasn't the first time. There had been other cases like that, other occasions they'd shared a room, even a bed.

But that was before.

Before the fall. Before Mary. Before Rosie.

Whoever Sherlock was texting, it was apparently more important than their conversation. John decided to let the discussion drop, if only for now, as he took to pacing around the room. Observations, possibly to serve as a distraction from the growing dread in the pit of his stomach.

It was small, ordinary with pale gray walls and a black door that led to a spotless white bathroom. There was little furniture, only a black desk with an uncomfortable-looking chair, a tiny black nightstand, and that damn bed. Dark gray sheets, four white pillows (two large, two small), and entirely terrifying. Tearing his gaze away from the object of his panic, he focused on the window across from the bed. Bit too large for the tiny room, covered in dark curtains that matched the sheets.

Not particularly classy, but nothing too inelegant, either.

But not the type of place you'd stay in with your best friend. Especially when there was only one bed.

There was only one bed.

And there was his panicking again. It had vanished for a whole two minutes. Far too long, he had almost started to miss it. Nothing was more reassuring than the urge to jump out the window with every fleeting glance towards it.

Sherlock's fast-paced typing was beginning to grate on his nerves, which were already damaged from the extremely obvious fact of how there was only one bed. John cleared his throat. Twice. Thrice, actually, and it took the third time to catch Sherlock's attention. He raised a brow, twirling his phone between his slender fingers. "Problem?"