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

Chapter Twenty-Six

Love is dangerous. Sherlock should've known that before he dove into it headfirst.

***

Mint ice-cream with a chocolate swirl slams down upon the coffee table with an obscenely loud bang, but Sherlock doesn't look up. He pretends to be thoroughly engaged in a newspaper article about the differences between cayenne and white pepper.

John stands over him for a moment, crossing his arms across his chest and keeping his expression tight. After a few moments, he snaps his fingers.

Sherlock averts his eyes from the page, and John gestures to the ice-cream.

"I don't want it."

"You don't want it?" This is, admittedly, not a scenario John played through.

"I don't want it. I'm not hungry. If it disappeared, I wouldn't even blink," Sherlock says, staring John down, although he's the one in the compromising position.

"If someone offers a kind gesture, you should take it without complaint," John replies coldly.

"Well," Sherlock says with a dismissive smile that doesn't reach his eyes, "I know no humility. Please, John. Enjoy it. God knows I won't."

"I got it for you."

"Do not interfere with my right to decline."

"But I - I got it because of you."

"You shouldn't have, John. Don't waste your time and money of such hopeless cases such as I, John. A little spanking should guide me back to the herd. I'll be in acceptable shape in no time."

John sniffs, once, twice, and walks away with the ice cream still on the coffee table. He's expecting Sherlock to give in - it's his favorite flavor of ice-cream, and whenever John buys some, he eats the entire pint in five minutes flat. But when John leaves, he hears the sound of something sailing through the air, and then, not a moment later, a thick thud.

He swivels back on one foot and peers around the corner; "What the bloody hell was that?" Sherlock looks up from his paper, and says, simply, "The ice-cream."

John, slowly, realizes, and looks down. In a trash bin is the gift, and with it, is a small smirk on Sherlock's lips.

"I told you," Sherlock says as he looks back down at the newspaper. "I don't want it."

"Are you f-" John cuts himself off, as gently as he can muster, he says, "I bought that for you. I bought it because..." Because I'm sorry. Don't you see that?

"Why'd you buy it, John?" Sherlock says, sitting up and pulling his knees to his chest. His toes curl and then relax, and he tilts his head. "Did you buy it to make me feel better? I don't need help to feel better. Surely, you know that."

"You know what?" John asks. "I'll just" - he leans down - "have it myself." He picks up the carton from the trash, and moves it in his hands.

It's still good. John shrugs, opening it, and limping back into the kitchen to get a spoon.

Sherlock's eyes widen exponentially, irrationally wide, as John takes the first bite. His lips part, breathing in the smell of peppermint, and he begins salivating...

Sherlock realizes what's happening and snaps back to attention. He can't break. He won't break.

***

The rest of the evening is silent and cold. John writes his papers, and Sherlock reads news column after news column, busily digging through papers to try and preserve his mind, which is going in circles.