Enjoy my entry for July’s @sherlockchallenge , “Lamp.” I did not sleep at all last night. Whoooop! I’ve actually spent like 2 weeks on this and still didn’t make it in time for the end of the month which made me want to cry but I didn’t because I’m too emotionally repressed for no reason whatsoever. Will be on AO3 as soon as I get my 8 hours and have enough anxiety to jumpstart my system again. Yeah it’s a very…serious fic *does finger guns*
I’m just playing this is pure humor + fluff.
In the simplest terms, Sherlock and John shared custody of a lamp. Today it was missing, and John is murderous.
There was no need for custody when they’d lived together; the lamp adorned a lovely little table in the corner where John would read and Sherlock would criticize scientific journals with the passion of a thousand suns on a mission to dehydrate the universe.
Upon Sherlock’s return, a deal had been struck, and the lamp was passed between them each week. Really, they both suspected, it was just a reason for them to see each other.
In any case, today it was gone.
“How could you bloody lose it? It’s a lamp! People don’t usually lug them around with their Oyster cards.”
“Er…” He fidgets timidly with the edge of a stained sleeve.
For four years since its acquisition, it has never seen the outside of Baker Street and then John’s little flat, except when it would travel between the two places.
Of course John had kept it when Sherlock was away. It was the only object they actually shared— sure, the microwave was up for grabs, but since John had discovered a bowl of human intestines in there rather than his orange chicken, he’d given up the territory. And orange chicken. Since then no food (that was meant to be eaten by living human beings) has ever touched the machine.
It’s just a lamp. It’s just a lamp— is what he told himself the entire drive to 221B yet he is giving away just how emotionally invested he is in a piece of furniture. He has showed his cards, and they all support a diagnosis of unhealthy attachment and codependency, but John swears he’s going to get that lamp back or die trying.
“I told you, I needed it for the investigation!”
“There is a reason torches exist! You couldn’t have found a more portable light source?!”
“What is this fixation with you and furniture? A month ago, you’d flipped out because of the brown stain on your chair. YOU DON’T EVEN LIVE HERE ANYMORE!”
“It doesn’t matter! The point is, it’s my week, I have a case to write up, and my bloody desk doesn’t have a lamp! And if it’s just a piece of furniture, why did you bother asking for it back? You could have just let me keep it instead of initiating this insane arrangement like the thing is our damn child!”
“For God’s sake— just buy another one! They’re half off at Kensington’s this week!”
They’d gone to nearly 14 different furniture stores that day because Sherlock insisted that the corner table was missing something. Probably related to the robbery a month ago— a client had taken off with some ancient vase that looked like it would sell for a million dollars to some rare collector. Either that or when Mr. Jensen touched it, it finally crumbled into dust. John had suggested moving some of the floor mess onto the table. Sherlock was not amused (I have a system, John!).
“Yeah, but really, why? Is there a case you're not telling me about? This is the 15th place we’ve gone to and we’ve disagreed on literally every product in the store. Listen, I know you’re bored since Lestrade has been out sick, but if those store associates glare at us any harder they’ll be developing telekinesis just to catapult us out the window. I’m starting to think that this isn’t really about lamps.
“Wrong, it is. Now pick something!”
“I have been!” He gestures indignantly. “This entire time! But no-o it’s too rustic or rounded or minimalist—I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!”
“No—you’ve been pointing at random objects so we could leave! At some point you suggested getting a menorah! NEITHER OF US ARE EVEN JEWISH. If you actually liked something, you would fight for it! You were an army doctor, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers—use some of that initiative and CHOOSE SOMETHING!”
John sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Why is this important?”
“You really want to revisit that topic—“
“No, no—no! Fine, er…ooh! That one- I…like the little tassels.”
“…what the hell John that thing is absolutely hideous—it would destroy the entire aesthetic of our living space, are you sure we’re looking at the same thing?”
“FOR FUCK’S SAKE SHERLOCK WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?”
Needless to say the sky was as dark as John’s mood by the time they started heading back to Baker Street, lampless and refusing to make eye contact. Things were said that caused pain on both ends.
John sighs, and settles onto the arm of the chair facing Sherlock. His chair. The feeling of nostalgia is instantaneous, his position as natural as it had been two years ago, when this was home. It’s easy to pretend— the floor is still a mess, the kitchen table is still a hazard rather than a place to eat, and they’re still bickering. The only difference is the bare corner table.
“Where’d you see it last?” he manages much, much more calmly.
“I investigate things for a living, John. Don’t you think I would have checked the crime scene?”
“No, I think you had an epiphany, ran off, and forgot all about it.”
“Touché.” He is still standing, arms crossed against his chest. Even admitting defeat, the sass coming from this fucker is unacceptable since it’s his fault that they even have to have this discussion.
“Answer the question,” John grits through his teeth.
Sherlock looks away and says something in French.
“Lestrade’s rubbish bin.”
“Lestrade’s rubbish bin!”
“I told you I needed it for a case!”
“Where? Anderson’s cubby?”
“I went back for it, but it was gone! Someone must have cleared it out while I went after the suspect!” His eyes go glassy in a way that’s dangerous when trying to get him to stay on topic. A lax smile spreads across his face as he recounts “Oh, it was brilliant, John! It was the shoelaces that clued me in! You see—“
“I don’t care how you solved the case!”
They both sit in silence for a moment. And darkness, since the object in question was the only thing they usually used to light the living room. Neither of them point out that it’s literally John’s job to care about Sherlock’s cases.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock mumbles.
John is taken aback by the sincerity of his ap-
“I’m sorry that you’re so emotionally attached to a piece of furniture! Really, John, I can steal you another one if you’d like! Why are you so angry about this?”
“BECAUSE I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU!”
Mycroft had called them in the next day to help with a “personal problem—“ which is code for super-secret government investigation. Normally, Sherlock would decline the invitation out of spite, but the case withdrawal was beginning to drive him mad. So there they were, on a Wednesday morning, walking into Mycroft’s house instead of a precinct.
The furnishings looked like they’d been stolen from the 1800s— the ancient vase would have fit perfectly among the brushed bronze and porcelain statues guarding the furniture. The carpet was red, with a velvety sheen, and John wonders if it was a strategic choice in order to ensure that all footsteps could be tracked should the need arise.
They meandered into the sitting and lo and behold, it was like a gift from God— the only decisive choice presented to them alighted by the rays of the sun like a divine being was pointing at it with a finger saying “this. This is the one.”
It was a smallish lamp with a cream-colored mushroom shade, held aloft by a polished wooden base carved vaguely into the shape of a gargoyle mid-roar. No further embellishments coated its structure— just ebony and the deft craftsmanship of a wizard (probably). It was the perfect combination of tacky and majestic.
He made eye contact with Sherlock, who had also stopped dead a few paces from the door, and knew immediately he felt the same. For the first time in two days, they were in complete agreement. It was ugly, posh, and absolutely perfect for their flat.
Not that John would ever suggest they buy anything that Mycroft owned unless either of them were willing to lose a kidney for a piece of furniture.
“Mycroft bought that from a flea market three weeks ago,” Sherlock whispered in his ear.
Speak of the devil, John thought as the man strode in, umbrella absent but still clad in a flashy suit, demeanor commanding the same level of esteem from everyone he interacted with.
Esteem, of which Sherlock gave none, promptly insulting his weight and blowing raspberries.
There was a thief among their ranks, selling equipment or information to foreign parties. Or weapons or…something. Honestly, John was too preoccupied with trying not to burst into laughter as Sherlock fidgeted with everything in the room, occasionally interjecting witty remarks that had nothing to do with the case, so that John’s memory of Mycroft’s report was distorted by the hilarity of their bickering. (Oh shit is this what it was like for their clients?)
After he was finished explaining the task, Sherlock simply said “no,” and then shot at his brother with a crossbow. Luckily his aim was true and it hit the candlestick on the mantle rather than the embodiment of the British government. He placed it back onto its glass display case and then hurried across the room to a side table, opening and closing a drawer while Mycroft’s back was turned. He slipped something into his pocket and began sprinting towards the door. John took the wild look in his companion’s eyes as a signal to run like hell, so they did, and got into a cab for Baker Street.
The entire ride is spent in breathless giggles and then silence after a short conversation about whether or not they had a new case (“It’s the prime minister’s secretary,” Sherlock says.
“Oh. Well, aren't you going to tell him?”
“Yes. When we’re safe at home, and he can’t throttle me for stealing his loyalty card to Belle Époque Patisserie.” He holds up the slip of paper he’d nicked from the drawer earlier, smirks, then clutches his side as if in pain.
He casts a suspicious glance to the front of the cab. “Ran into a table corner on my way out.”
Then in the safety of their flat, when the door had shut because Sherlock insists that Mycroft could have bugged the staircase, he turns toward John and pulls something out of his Belstaff with a flourish.
“For you, my dear Watson.”
It was the bloody lamp, presented to him like a bouquet of flowers. It really shouldn’t have stirred the butterflies in his stomach but Christ. He feels a rush of fondness for the madman in front of him, as quickly and painfully fervent as the blush creeping across his face, like he’d dropped all of his inhibitions in the middle of a street and tripped over them while trying to be smooth.
John had known for a long time that he was doomed to loving his best friend in silence, but it was things like these that ensured his destruction. It was incredibly thoughtful, in its own Sherlockian way, that committing larceny was worth making John laugh. For a second, he could believe that perhaps his love wasn’t unrequited.
But he could never be sure unless one of them made a move that risked showing their cards. Friendships and romances tend to be one-way roads that never lead back to each other.
So he put the lamp on a table instead of a vase, and they went about their day pretending they were completely happy with the way things were.
The silence after John’s outburst is deafening, but then Sherlock pipes up with “Oh. Oh, we’ve wasted so much time.”
And John is so angry because this fucker was in love with him too and didn’t say anything—so angry he could kiss him, so he closes the short distance between them, pulls him down by the collar of his shirt and kisses him into oblivion (because he’s allowed to do that now). The romance of the gesture bursts like a firework between them— bright, flashy, beautiful, but short-lived as John’s brain conveniently decides to have an epiphany at that moment.
“IT’S AT MYCROFT’S HOUSE, ISN’T IT,” he exclaims, pulling away mid-kiss.
Sherlock falls back into his chair with a groan, digging the palms of his hands into his eye sockets. “John, you were thinking about my brother while we were kissing?!”
“I- no! Sorry—it’s just that um. I made a deduction! Two, actually!” He chuckles euphorically, and for a moment he just stands, gazing transfixed at the imaginary jigsaw puzzle he’d put together like it was the holy grail of puzzles. He finally understands the root of Sherlock’s arrogance— if he always saw the world like this, it definitely would also go to his head.
“Well?” Sherlock croons, leaning forward. “Go on then.”
John grins and sits down in his chair, steepling his fingers in mockery of the gorgeous man sitting in front of him.
“The stain on your sleeve.”
Sherlock narrows his eyes, green today and sparkling with mischief, trying to see where John is going with this.
“You don’t stumble over your words— you literally corrected a man on the conjugation of his execution—- you are obsessed with grammar. You’re well-spoken, and you’re not drunk, so there’s no reason for you to screw up. But you told me to ‘buy another one.’ I know you care about that lamp, I know you’re lying to me about something because you hate being wrong. You know it’s irreplaceable— you nicked it yourself! There’s no way I could have gotten it from a furniture shop because Mycroft bought it from a flea market. You wouldn’t have said that unless you were trying to cover something up.
“After figuring that out, I realized the stain on your sleeve is from a sandwich in Lestrade’s rubbish bin— it’s Thursday so they’ve got a buy-one-get-one-free deal and he never passes up on that. You must have fished it out! And yet it’s not here, so someone must have seen you. Can’t have been anyone other than Lestrade. Everyone else is immune to your bullshit but Lestrade has been dating your brother for 4 years now — that’s my second deduction by the way. Mycroft would never go to a flea market on his own, so it must have been a date— that’s why Lestrade recognized it and confiscated it from you!”
Sherlock, apparently, was blind to the details of his brother’s love life. His complexion had paled to ivory as John spoke. His eyes had grown comically wide in horror of the many things he’d remained blissfully ignorant of in the last four years. John clears his throat and Sherlock’s eyes refocus like the dial of a telescope. He quirks his lip upwards apologetically, and gestures for John to continue.
“Then you said ‘I’ll steal you another one.’ You have a tell, Sherlock, sorry to break it to you. Whenever you lie to me, you only get away with it because it holds some sort of merit or is half-true—- you’re able to say you’ll steal another one because there’s one to steal! And the only reason you’ve been covering it up and arguing with me about it is because you know where it is and it must be somewhere utterly deplorable for you to step foot in but somewhere Lestrade has access to— ergo, your brother’s house.”
John leans back in his chair and sighs.
“That was unbelievably hot,” Sherlock says, staring at him.
John flushes. “Believe me, I know. You do it every day.”
Sherlock’s eyes sparkle with pride. A lot of his emotions are filtered through them—it was the best way to see what was going on in his brain. Which is exactly why John has had absolutely no clue as to what this man’s thought processes were for four years because open stares were often a cause of concern between two people who aren’t romantically affiliated. But after ages of relying on peripheral or body language cues, his eyes are as eloquent and boisterous as Shakespeare on his third bottle of wine. John only wonders if Sherlock’s ever looked at him like this when he wasn’t looking.
Like everything in the world just faded out to him; like he was the single bright thing in an endless dark void. A conductor of light.
Oh good lord, he was the fucking lamp.
Sherlock leans forward, tearing him away from his revelation. He tilts John’s chin upward—they are both literally sitting on the edge of their seats for this to be possible—and kisses him soundly, the brush of his lips and the warmth of his breath like the first rush of the heater when you walk in from the cold, warm and inviting. John slips a hand around the back of his neck, deepening the kiss.
The phrase “kissing each other senseless” would be inaccurate; for once, John is in full possession of all his mental capacity to think about how he could name all of the neck muscles he could feel stretched out beneath his fingers. He could list every known chemical reaction that was occurring in the body, every hormone that was being released at that moment. But he doesn’t. Instead he marvels at how lucky he had been to get so sexually frustrated over a lamp that it was the difference between stalling their relationship for another four years. And then that his self-proclaimed sociopath, the man who goes about every day of his life scorning the sentimental, pretending not to have feelings, pulls away and tells him earnestly,
“I love you, John Watson.”
John smiles and feels his tear ducts betray him. As warm tears flow freely down his face, he holds Sherlock’s face between his hands, gazing at him seriously and fully setting him up to expect an I love you too.
“…that means you’ll get the lamp back right?” he says tearfully.
John was expecting his expression to fall, or his face to go blank like in the rare times he’s confused about what’s happening, but instead tears also begin rolling down his face, and he says just as brokenly,
“Yeah I’ve got it all planned out. Free tomorrow?”
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