The Ring

“John, phone,” the detective summoned his partner, handing him the ringing smartphone with the screen displaying the contact named “Love.” Watson out of the shower, was drying his hair with a towel, took the mobile in his free hand, thanking his friend briefly. Then he walked to the kitchen, closed the heavy door behind him, only to answer the call later. Within a couple of minutes, John returned to the living room, but with a visibly spoiled mood. Holmes wasn't interested in asking, "What happened?" It was evident — an unpleasant conversation with his spouse about not spending the night at home. Instead, he decided to inquire or state something else: “You have a new ringtone.” “Um, yes,” the man hesitated, switching gears in his mind. “It's our song with Mary,” he added unintentionally and immediately regretted it, seeing the change in the detective's face. “Naturally,” the dark-haired man uttered, opening the morning newspaper in front of him. “Just don't start, please,” Watson sat down with him at the table. “What exactly?” the detective raised an eyebrow, not taking his eyes off the text in front of him. In one swift motion, the blogger took the paper from his hands, drawing attention to himself before responding: “Getting upset, being jealous... You still keep the recording of the dominatrix moan for her messages.” “I told you about that,” Holmes coolly replied, grabbing the next copy of the print edition. John repeated the action, putting this sample aside. “Is this about you not caring about notifications but agreeing to change it only to the sound of my orgasm?” “Yes,” the detective confirmed his words with a satisfied look. “Seems fair, don't you think?” Watson rolled his eyes at the absurdity of the situation. Holmes concluded the conversation, stood up from the table, and headed to his room. “Then you better get used to hearing what you don't like because my melody stays!” Watson shouted after him. Sherlock abruptly stopped, as if receiving a sudden slap. Clenching his jaw, he turned around and closed the distance with the offender again. “Well... What did you tell her?” “Who?” “Your wife,” Holmes retorted to his partner's sudden confusion. “She knows we're on a case. We've been investigating it all night...” the blogger rubbed his fingers together, avoiding the detective's penetrating gaze. “What case?” the detective inquired. “Murder,” the blond-haired man answered briefly, then got up and went to the bathroom. “Details?” “Only lies have details,” John said sharply, glancing at the mirror and sink in the bathroom. “Great... You didn't even come up with anything!” Sherlock exclaimed, spreading his arms wide, feeling at least annoyed not to hear about a fictional adventure. “She doesn't pry, you know?” John informed, returning to the living room. “We don't discuss work with Mary.” “Still, she might ask questions...” the detective marveled at his best friend's nonchalance. “In that case, I'll find something to say or...” Watson bit his lip, not wanting to blurt out something unnecessary again. “Or?” Holmes insisted on hearing the complete sentence. “Nothing. I'll find something to say,”the blogger patted Sherlock on the shoulder, convincing him of his words. “Or can you satisfy her curiosity in another way?” Holmes was looking for confirmation of his suspicion in his partner's eyes. “How do you even manage both of us?!” And apparently, he found it, allowing this thought to escape. Holmes was deeply offended that after an intimate encounter with him, the lover returned to his wife. Always. No matter how Sherlock indulged him at night, with dawn, John inevitably went to her, playing the role of an exemplary husband. “Nothing will happen. Not today. It should be obvious to you,” John said in a confident tone of voice, even though he felt awful about it. The detective rolled his eyes demonstratively, trying to hide the sudden wave of jealousy. Watson looked around once again, then briskly crossed his arms over his chest. “So, where is it?” he asked. “What?” the detective replied calmly, noticing his partner's defensive posture. “You know,” the doctor pointed at him with his finger. Holmes opened his mouth and immediately closed it, indicating the launch of a superpowerful thought process. The blond tilted his head and nervously began to fidget with the fingers of his left hand, waiting. “My ring,” he explained, interrupting his partner's internal stream of consciousness. “Your ring? I have no idea. Was it on you today?” the genius replied lightning-fast, as if compensating for the pause that had occurred. “Sherlock,” the blogger uttered his name through gritted teeth, showing with his whole demeanor that he wasn't in the mood for jokes. “I don't know... Maybe it's still there,” the detective nodded towards the open door to the bedroom. John, wasting no time, walked inside and surveyed the area. Their bedroom still smelled of sex. The bed was unmade, the sheet almost hit the floor. The doctor searched under the bed. Besides an empty pack of condoms, there was nothing there. Going through the bedding, he also didn't find the jewellery. In the end, John was ready to accept defeat and leave with nothing. As a final touch, he opened the window, letting in a burst of fresh air. “Found it?” Holmes low baritone, quietly entering the room, sent shivers down the blogger's body. “No,” Watson scratched his head, “it's not here.” Sherlock skeptically raised an eyebrow. “Have you looked everywhere?” The blogger had a gut feeling that his lover was hiding something from him, and the ring couldn't just disappear like that. “If you got rid of it somehow, you better say,' the shorter man warned, giving the other a threatening look. “Yes, I got rid of it... Threw it away. Over there”, the detective confessed, pointing to the open space through the window frame. The doctor looked down at the sidewalk and again locked eyes with the former flatmate – he just shrugged. John snorted. “You know, I won't even ask why you thought you’re entitled to dispose my things as you please...” “Could have guessed I never liked it in the first place,” Holmes interjected, defending himself. “But that's my wedding ring!” John raised his voice in outrage, seeing no hint of remorse in his lover. “I'm not an expert, but probably that's why,” the taller man explained, chin tucked, expecting to bear the next wave of anger. Watson covered his eyes with his hand for a couple of seconds, choosing his words in his mind. “You... Holly shit! You worry about the truth of the legend while throwing my ring out on the street as if it's NOTHING. Didn't think you were such a selfish psychopath!” Sherlock had nothing to say to that and simply lowered his eyes to the floor. Meanwhile, John made sure at least the phone was still with him and headed for the exit. “Alright," Holmes urgently stopped him near the door, wrapping his arms around him from behind. “Calm down,” the detective spoke softly, turning the man towards him. “I was just joking. It's in this room. Likely it just rolled under the bed or something like that.” “You're insufferable. What made you take it off in the first place?" John irritably freed himself from the man's grasp. “I already told you the reason: it was bothering me, I... I was getting distracted. “Sherlock," the man sighed wearily, “I can't return home without it. And I don't want to be forced to buy a replacement. If the ring is still here — I want us to find it now. Together." Holmes nodded in agreement, and they silently began a thorough search. When John was examining the bed, he bent down to lift the corner of the sheet once again and suddenly Holmes appeared behind him and pushed the man forward. The blogger awkwardly tumbled over, belly across the bed, while the dark-haired man settled on top of him. As he got comfortable, he started covering the doctor's neck with brief, tender kisses. “What are you doing?”, the blond laughed at the ticklish touches. “I was going to leave," a hint of remorse colored his voice. “I have something for you," Sherlock pulled out the lost treasure from his pocket. Watson sighed, a mix of relief, admiration, and annoyance at the trick. Freeing his hand, the blond man reached out for his partner's hand. “Well, that’s it. Give it to me!” John couldn't reach it by just a few centimeters, and the detective graciously lowered his hand to his. “May I?” the lover asked softly, lightly touching the lobe of his ear with his lips. John swallowed, silently giving his consent. Sherlock put the ring on his partner's finger, covered his hand with his own, and intertwined their fingers. Then he turned his head towards the man and pulled him into a deep kiss. After that, shifting to the side, he pressed the blogger's body against his own and gently kissed his neck, careful not to leave any marks. Watson involuntarily moaned, ran his hand through the brunette's curls, and once again brought his lips close to his, initiating an even more passionate kiss. They spent an indefinite amount of time lying in each other’s arms, then at some point, John leaned back on his back and took a deep breath. Along with which came the realization of what was happening and that they needed to stop before going any further. In return, Sherlock didn't understand anything. He was never fully aware of himself while sharing a bed with such desirable John. So, he sat on his lover’s legs without thinking. Began gradually unbuttoning each button on his shirt, as he sensually kissed every newly exposed piece of the doctor's fresh and clean skin after the shower. “Oh, Sherlock...” the only thing the blond was able to utter, while enjoying the touches of hot lips on his bare body. “Stay with me tonight,” Sherlock required, stepping back and starting to deal with the first buttons on his piece of clothing. “Don't ask me to do what I can't.” Sherlock bit his lip, hands decisively dropped down. “I'm not,” he cut off, then stood up from the bed quite abruptly, in his characteristic offended manner. John propped himself up on his elbows. “Sherlock!” the blond-haired man called out to his lover as he was already leaving the room. “What do you want?” the man's voice sounded distant. “Come back.” “For what?” “I want to give you a proper goodbye." “That's the point, John. I don't want to part with you. And no, I won't say goodbye to you. You're that sexy right now that it will be very difficult for me to restrain myself.” Watson smirked, straightened his shirt, and tidied his hair. “Fine. Then let's consider we've already done with the farewell.” The doctor then quietly walked through the living room, ignoring Sherlock sitting in the chair, who had crossed his legs and stared into the first available book but still watched with peripheral vision as the silhouette of his former flatmate left the apartment. He then listened to the footsteps on the stairs and, standing by the window, finally got a confirmation that John had gotten into a taxi and left. Again. It happened again. And Sherlock hated himself for not regretting anything and wanting to repeat everything as soon as possible. Holmes took the phone in his hands, made several attempts to write something like: “I'll be missing you,” “I already miss you,” “Looking forward to our next case ;)” — he erased the entire text, clearing the written cloud. “Let me know when you're free. SH.” Sent. Read. An immediate response. “John: Ok.” “And you were right, I am indeed a selfish psychopath, unable to express my feelings!” Holmes cursed himself, irritatedly tossing the phone onto the couch, which bounced off and hit the floor. He didn't care. Sherlock didn't even think about picking it up. Instead, he turned on the coffee maker in the kitchen and went to the bedroom, collapsing on the bed. His pillow smelled like John, and the one next to it also retained his scent. Immersed in the illusion of his lover's presence nearby, Sherlock closed his eyes and unknowingly slipped into the abyss of sleep. Meanwhile, his phone ping with a notification. “New message.” “John: Sherlock! You're in your usual repertoire. What is that supposed to mean?”