Love:The Power of Life and Death- Johnlock

Don't Go, John...

'1 day left.' That was the first thing that came into John's head the second he awoke. He grumbled into his pillow that was soaked with body heat. "Shit."

Melodic music filled the lounge of 221B. "Morning." John's voice was thick with sleep. The raven-haired man was stood in front of the window; he focused intently on the stand which held his sheet music. Despite his deep concentration, the melody came effortlessly. The music however, was interrupted when Sherlock turned to face John. "John, I'm glad to see you've had a more restful sleep."

"So am I." John smiled weakly.

"Have you packed yet?" John suddenly paused; memories of the night before flooded back to him as his consciousness continued to heighten.

"I didn't go to bed last night."

"Indeed," Sherlock confirmed, "you didn't."

"Why did I wake up in my bed then?"

"Because I put you there." Sherlock answered nonchalantly. "You fell asleep when we were watching television; after discovering that you were an incredibly heavy sleeper, I decided to carry you up. The whole situation was a bit risky though."

"How so?" John asked, slightly embarrassed.

"I walked down and found Mrs Hudson in our fridge, well, not in our fridge but..." John smiled at the detective's choice of words. He couldn't help but think of the severed head that was in there at the moment. "She was taking back the jam that you apparently borrowed."

"And that was risky because...?"

"If I had decided to take you up a few minutes later, or if she came in a few minutes earlier," Sherlock tried to suppress his smile of amusement, "she would have found us snuggled up on the armchair, with you snoring in between my legs-"

"I don't snore." John interjected.

"You do."

"I don't."

"I believe you do, John."

Instead of defending himself, the doctor just simply gave Sherlock an apologetic smile, to which he chuckled. "Don't worry, it's cute."

"Cute? Sherlock, I'm an army doctor, I've been wounded in Afghanistan, I've killed people. I am not cute." Despite his words, John could feel a blush creeping up his neck.

"Have you finished packing yet?" Sherlock asked again. John sighed and shook his head.

"I plan on doing it this evening."

"Isn't it more logical to do it now and get it over and done with? That way you won't stress about it for the whole day."

"I suppose so," John shrugged as he turned towards the kitchen. "Tea?"

"I'd love some."

John decided to take the detective's advice. After handing Sherlock his tea, he slowly trudged up the stairs. His mug in his hand swayed as he climbed each step, causing tea to trickle down the side of the mug. John dreaded it; packing. It was so mundane. It was so tedious, and yet, it was also so stressful.

***

Meanwhile, Sherlock was reading a book as he sat in his armchair: 'Top Ten Infamous Serial Killers'. Every now and then, a faint smile of amusement grew across his lips; not because of the brilliant techniques of the cunning killers, but because he heard John crashing around upstairs, occasionally cursing when weighing his suitcase, only to find that it was too heavy. It took 35 minutes of John's anger before Sherlock began to find himself becoming frustrated. He dropped his book into his lap and reclined back into his chair. He closed his eyes and tried to tune out the noise.