if I knew myself, I'd run away.
In response to this prompt from ivyblossom: Someone should write Sherlock thinking better when John is playing with his hair. :P
I welcome more prompts, silly, short, cracky, just about anything except perhaps angst! Feel free to message or what-have-you.
“Oh my God, Sherlock. Come here.”
Sherlock ceases pacing and ranting for just long enough to throw a death-glare in John’s direction.
“Now,” John adds, in his I-am-Captain-Watson-and-this-is-an-order voice; the one not even Sherlock can disobey, how does he do it?
Sherlock stomps across the room and looms over John; just because he has to listen doesn’t mean he’s required to be gracious about it.
John points to the spot next to him on the sofa. “Sit.”
John twists his body and does something that Sherlock can’t quite follow—there are hands on his head, John’s hands—and Sherlock opens his eyes and is looking up at John.
“Shut your eyes and shut up for a while,” John orders, still in that voice.
Sherlock shuts his eyes and concentrates very hard on not speaking. He compensates by twisting his hands together.
Until he feels John’s fingers in his hair, slow and steady, firm yet gentle. He can hear the telly in the background, and the traffic on the street below. He can feel John’s pulse, the warmth of him through his trousers, and his hands carding through Sherlock’s hair.
Sherlock sighs. Everything retreats for the span of five heartbeats—he counts them—and then his thoughts start to order themselves of their own accord.
He must make some noise, some sound of wonder, of relief, because John chuckles. “Thought that might help. Talk it out if you need to.”
“No, no,” Sherlock murmurs, a small smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “This is… fine.”