Drabble for irisquod!

Sorry all, turned into a shite day and I ended up running around like a madwoman, then taking a nap.  So, at long last, a leetle ficcie for irisquod!

irisquod asked:

drabble request… John and Sherlock lost in a US city.

So here ya go

Lost in Boston

“Goddammit all to bloody hell, Sherlock, where’s the map?”  John was livid.  It was cold, it was starting to rain, it was getting dark, and they were, irrefutably, lost.

“Well, I did bring it, but I must have left it on the table when we stopped to get coffee.”  John raised an eyebrow.  Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “I got distracted by the ducks.”  He looked resolutely ahead of himself down the slightly curving street.  “It’s fine, we can’t be that lost, we just knew where we were!”

John fumed silently.  They were in the middle of a long residential block, streetlights flickering to life around them.  “We knew where we were half an hour ago!” he burst out.  “And I’ve been following you like you knew what you were doing!

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up.  “Nothing out of the ordinary, then.”  He risked a sidelong glance at John underneath his lashes.  John huffed slightly and glanced back, his face softening.

“All right then, Mr. Eidetic Memory, get us back to Massachusetts Avenue in the next twenty minutes, and we have a chance to actually make it on time to the recital.” 

Sherlock looked closer at John.  The tip of his nose was pink, as were the tips of his ears and his cheeks.  Sherlock took his left hand out of his pocket and shoved his arm through John’s, drawing him closer for warmth.

“What’s at the end of this street?  I see green.”  John craned his neck.

“Park.”  Sherlock continued to stride forward as if he had an embedded GPS chip.  John would not be fooled again.

“Wait, doesn’t that mean we’re getting even FARTHER from where we need to be?  Sherlock, let’s turn around! At least if we go back the way we came–”

“It would be foolish to try to retrace our steps if we don’t know what those steps were, don’t you think?”  Sherlock says drily.  John hears the undercurrent of amusement and sighs in exasperation.

“You’re having fun, aren’t you.”  It’s not a question.

Sherlock turns to look at him then, eyes alight, hair wild in the chilly breeze, and John relents, smiling and squeezing Sherlock’s arm through his coat.

“When was the last time we were really LOST, John!  This is NOT boring.”

“All right, we’ll head to the park.  There’s bound to be someone there who we can ask for directions.”

One thrilling and breathless half-hour later, Sherlock and John slid into their seats, right up at the front of the David Friend Recital Hall, trying not to giggle too loudly as a hush fell over the rest of the audience.  They looked up eagerly at the stage, and John had to suppress another giggle as Sherlock poked him in the ribs and pointed. 

Hamish Watson-Holmes grinned at his fathers from the first row of violins.  His cheeks were pink with excitement as he set about tuning up with the rest of the ensemble for this, his very first group recital.  Sherlock and John smiled back at him, and as the lights went down at last, Sherlock’s hand stole out and rested on John’s knee, palm up in invitation.  John looked at Sherlock, slumped in his chair in the darkness of the hall, and felt the familiar squeeze of his heart.  His hand slid over Sherlock’s, blunt fingers twining with slender pale ones.  Wherever Sherlock was, wherever Hamish was, was where John needed to be.  Was home.