Sherlock Imagines

First Fight

First Fight:

You and Sherlock are sitting on the couch. Well, you are curled up in the corner near the armrest and Sherlock is at the edge of the seat, yelling at the television. You have a cuppa in your hands, the handle facing away from your body, the steam billowing and swirling in the air. The tea bag is in the cup still and the string's hanging off of the edge. The paper tag has an elegant look to it, with its green and purple swirls and the letter 'E' in fancy script. The kind that makes it difficult for someone to figure out what it said.

"No! Choose Max. Paul secretly picks his nose." He shouts. You smile. You've always found it to be cute when Sherlock got so worked up about trashy television. He grumbles and slouches back into the couch, his arms are crossed over his chest. You place your hand on his shoulder, feeling his tense muscles relax. He sighs.

"Tell me how you know he picks his nose." You say. You know that having him explain how he came to deductions helped take his mind off of things.

"His finger was shiny up to the first knuckle and there was a small lump of mucus. Also, he rubs his hands on all of the furniture. I can't believe you didn't pick it up, John." He says. Your hands tighten around your mug.

Don't get angry. Don't get angry. Don't get angry.

You chant in your head. Over the past few weeks that the two of you have been together, this simple wish has come to be a mantra.

But this, this has become the last straw. You snap.

"JOHN?!"You shout, it was nearly a screech.

"Oh." Sherlock goes.

"Oh? OH?" You shout. "You call me 'John', when I am your girlfriend, one too many times."

"Oh, please. What other time-" You cut him off by raising your finger.

"What. Other. Time?" You emphasize each word and he just stares.

"The first time you called me 'John' was when I came to pick you up on our first date. The second was when John had left your flat and I was the only one left in the room. I was talking to you for twenty minutes before you asked 'John' to grab something for you. You were so focused that you didn't see that he had left. The third, I had come into the office to pick you up for lunch. You were at the microscope and I said, 'Hi.' And you responded, 'John, I told you to not disturb me.' The fourth, we were in a cab and you asked me, 'John, where did you say we were going for dinner again?' The fifth time, was when we were here, and I was in the kitchen. You said, 'John, why are you cooking? You never cook.' I emerged out of the kitchen and said that it was me.

"All of these times, I had let it slide. I made up the excuses for you. I blamed it on your job, on the fact that you've never had an actual girlfriend. But the fact of the matter is, you don't want a girlfriend." You say calmly. It was like you said it in he matter of a quiet storm. Your voice was quiet and firm, but behind it was the force of a hurricane.

Sherlock isn't saying anything. He just sits there. He looks into your eyes, but it seems like more than that. He was looking at you, yet he was looking straight past you. He's thinking, but he was ignoring your presence. You do a mixture of a grunt and a scream of frustration. You were falling for this asshole.

And now you were having your first fight, and he wasn't even listening. You feel tears pricking your eyes and you fight them back, refusing to let him see you cry. But you fail miserably. He just stared at you as tears flowed from your face. You start to shake your head. You are angry, angry at him for making you cry, angry at yourself for crying, and angry at the fact that nearly all of your relationships always seemed to end in disaster, because nobody seemed to try to mend the damage done after the first, big, blow-out, fight. Your vision is blurry with tears.

It seemed like a really stupid reason to get all upset, but wouldn't anyone react this way? Wouldn't you want your boyfriend to at least call you by your name? Especially when the couple in question have been going out for nearly a month, and have known each other for even longer.

The overwhelming sense of urgency to get away fills your veins, spreading to your toes and your fingertips. You get a bit jittery and shakey and you can't stand seeing him watch you cry. For him to see that it was him that made you cry wasn't just humiliating, it was devistating.

Not being able to take it any longer, you run into the bathroom and close the door behind you. Your hand comes up to your mouth as you try to muffle the sobs escaping your mouth.

There was no way that you were going to come out of this bathroom any time soon, so you get comfortable. You sit in the tub with the curtain closed. You lay down. The crying has nearly stopped, but you're still doing that awkward gasping and if you tried to speak, you knew you would be incoherant. Your face is probably all puffy and your nose is all red and runny.

You lay there and, as the leftover tears fall down your face, you wonder how on earth you were going to get out of here and if anything would be alright anymore.