Kleptomaniac (A Johnlock Fanfiction) [2015 Wattys Award Winner]

Chapter Nineteen

When Mycroft calls, it snows. As if his very presence can make it colder.

So much so, that when fluffy pieces of ice fall from the skies in what seems to be an almost tumultuous storm of pure white, John asks if Sherlock's brother has called (whose name is still unknown and mysterious), and Sherlock nods with a sardonic smile.

"What does he say to you?" John asks, turning away from his unfinished painting to look back at Sherlock, who is violently thrashing open an upset newspaper.

"Nothing," he replies.

John sort of frowns, and says, "What kind of 'nothing'?"

"Like," Sherlock snaps, "nothing nothing."

"You could just say that you didn't want to tell me."

"Then, I'd be lying, in part." Sherlock meets John's eyes with a sincere gaze, and then he returns his attention to his newspaper.

***

On Mondays, Sherlock goes to the shops with John, as per request of the multiple magazines he consults to keep his "significant other" happy (because that's what he and John are, now, right?). Not that John even especially likes shopping; in fact, he's rather impartial to it. But the magazine said so, so on Mondays, Sherlock drags John to a shop and insists they look at things.

He doesn't steal. He tries his hardest not to, because he knows John would be disappointed in him.

Sherlock hasn't yet found a shop that's too intriguing, besides the occasional rickety, broken down ice cream parlor. It is trembling and creaky, painted a blue that has disappeared patchily from the soft, aging wood, a stark contrast against the sky. It literally draws Sherlock, as he can see ice-cream churn smoothly in a row of mixers, spinning colors and textures into one swirling mass of flavor. It's absolutely mesmerizing - there's a pink ice-cream, and a white one, and a dark brown one, and yet one more - mint; a pale lime contrasts against the pastel wood color. ("Ice Cream Parlour," it says in curly yellow letters, hung up above a doorway that's almost falling apart.) When Sherlock sees it, something clicks in him.

"We need to go there."

John turns rather slowly, staring at something else entirely - a mother and her child, listening to a song together on a bench a few feet away. He grabs Sherlock's hand - "What?" he asks - suddenly turning to see Sherlock's finger pointing towards a tiny little shop, quietly bustling in the Monday noise.

"That old thing?" John questions, but Sherlock tugs rudely on his shoulder to summon him across what seems to be a cesspool of boring. John shakes his head in frustration and follows after.

***

"Does it ever bother you?"

"What?"

"Your dad. You never see your dad."

Sherlock scoffs and pushes his unfinished pasta across the table to where John is, a dismissive look in his eyes. "As if."

***

They watch movies a lot. John likes to pretend that if he pays for the movie, Sherlock's urge to steal will die away.

But that's not true; John is not a miracle cure. He is a miracle person.

They watch rom coms, and they avoid guns and sadness and dead people; Sherlock secretly likes When Harry Met Sally and Jerry Maguire and when John isn't looking he finds himself singing "Hey Jude" under his breath because it's a nice song and John is a nice person.

One night, Sherlock falls asleep after eating an entire pint of his favorite ice cream (mint with a chocolate swirl). Right on John's chest. John falls asleep under Sherlock's body, their limbs curled into each other like two lovers in the cold.