Genre: Sherlock fanfic, Drama, Fluff



Pairing: Sherlock+John

Rating: G-PG

Summary: John receives a plain green mug from his sister, Harry.

notes: Waiting for my acceptance to AO3 .-.

It was a nice day during the spring season, the weather was fair besides the usual veil of cloudiness, and it was the kind of weather that made John feel content during the walk home from the Surgery. Once he stepped into the flat, he couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit deflated, just a tiny bit; it looked like Sherlock had yet to move from his spot from the couch, lying on its length, feet dangling from the armrest, fingers locked together on his stomach.



“Good to know you’ve been productive.” John commented dryly as he pulled off his coat.

“Parcel.” Sherlock replied curtly, the doctor’s eyes quickly darting to the entrance, expecting a ring at the door, but the postman was obviously too late to make the usual rounds. John turned his head to question him, “Parcel, from your sister. By your chair- a coffee mug I believe.” Sherlock barely elaborated. Sure enough, John was met with a neatly packed parcel by his chair, he cleared his throat as he flopped down, rolling his shoulders before picking up the sloppily tapped up box. As John unwrapped the box, Sherlock sat up from the couch, he knew it was from Harry, he knew it was a coffee mug, but this was rather spontaneous for either of the siblings to be able to deduce the meaning of this little care package.

There was a sharp inhalation from John’s nose as he uncovered the cup; it was a plain green coffee mug with a small chip from the right side of the handle, the gold print that clung to the surface in bare flecks and speckles showed its age and use. With shaky fingers, he pulled it up by the handle, closing his eyes as memories flooded his mind, making his chest feel heavy. Three fingers were hooked onto the gap, while hard calloused fingers of his left hand tenderly brushed the smooth surface, John had a faraway look in his eyes, swallowing hard before placing it back in the box. Silver eyes watched him like a hawk, his fingers unconsciously mimicking the movements of John’s hands against his wrist.

“How unremarkable.” Sherlock commented as he stood up, walking over to his chair, dropping on it with a groan, he didn’t know why John had that look on his face, it was just an old mug, but then again, he didn’t get the full details of the object from where he sat from the couch just a moment ago. John let out a worn out scoff, eyes wandering off to the window behind the detective.

“It isn’t really.” He replied, eyes dropping back down to the coffee mug, “As far as I know, there really wasn’t anything special about this mug, just a little souvenir that was picked up, but my dad had it for the last 32 years, as far as I know.” John added, giving the little object a smile. Ah, there it was, sentiment, Sherlock would have easily seen the signs if he had gotten a good look at it.

“So your father passed away 9 years ago?” Sherlock asked curiously, all his deductions about his flatmate were all superficial signs he could read on the fly, much else would have been hinted in any conversation John would make, to which John made no conversation of. Sherlock never asked, delving into more personal details never seemed like ‘them’.

“Yeah, this was while I was in the military, Harry inherited all their belongings and I guess she kept this in storage since.” John answered with a cool expression, it seemed he had come to terms with his parents’ death long ago.

“Why now?” To Sherlock, that was the big question, his hand raising to his face, fingertips rapping against his lip.

“Spring cleaning?” John answered with a playful smile, Sherlock’s eyes darted to the side, thinking of the season and huffed noisily though his nose, his case all too easily solved.

—–

In the coming days, Sherlock saw more of this coffee mug by John’s side, sitting quietly as it waited to be in use while the good doctor read the morning paper or patiently listening to him type those nonsensical blogs or cheekily hiding John’s snarky smiles behind the rim. It was just a plain green mug; the gloss worn down on the right side from years of a hand touching the surface, the underside was worn down on the left side of the handle from being rather carelessly dragged downwards to be placed on any flat surface and there was that unsightly chip on the rim from the right. John was a rather foolish man when it came to sentimental things, it only contained ¾ of the contents John’s other mug held, so it was all the more impractical.

—–

As fate would have it, the coffee mug that only held ¾ the amount of coffee and 200% more sentiment met its untimely demise as Sherlock evaded a rather quick side cut from an angry father-in-law of a man that had been rightly incarcerated, but the daughter was unable to handle the situation at hand in which the husband had left her in, knocking over the side table that the mug was placed on with his left foot, breaking the handle off and the left side in a muted shatter.



“Bullocks.” Was all Sherlock could say before giving the angry father-in-law an uppercut, knocking him out.

The officers detaining the man had been gone for hours, John was due home and Sherlock placed the defaced coffee mug and its handle and chipped rim on a tray, placing it exactly where it had been left this morning before John had made his way to the Surgery.

John stepped into the flat, taking off his coat, glad to see his flatmate not loafing around on the couch, but sitting neatly on his chair, “Anything interesting happen today?” He asked, it was more out of pleasantries than anything, clearing his throat, walking to the side table to grab his mug for some afternoon tea, but once caught with the sight, he took once step back. Sherlock’s eyes were trained on the mug, “What happened?” John asked, swallowing hard in an attempt to dislodge the lump in his throat. Sherlock let out a shaky exhale, he shouldn’t worry, he didn’t do anything wrong.

“While I was fighting off an angry father-in-law of the recently incarcerated Trent Springly, my foot happen to knock over the table.” He explained firmly, it sounded fine, perfectly clear as he had practiced before. John stepped closer to the table, he could feel his lips twitching into a pucker, trying hard to school his expression, but there was also the strain between his brows that was making the effort all the more strenuous. His fingers reached out tentatively, as if he would hurt the inanimate object, pinching up the broken handle, a whimper lodged itself in the back of his throat and vibrated into his sinuses.

Sherlock watched with morbid fascination, he had been anticipating anger, a trashing or a few harsh barks. John’s lips twitched into silent snarl, his fingers wrapping around the mugs broken handle.

“This coffee mug is as old as me, Sherlock.” He commented, the words having been strained around his swollen esophagus, a weak smile went taut against his cheek as he felt a tear cling to his lower eyelid, feeling the warm liquid make its slow decent downwards

“It was an accident.” Sherlock was quick to defend, quite literally standing up for himself as he rose off the chair, “I didn’t intend to break it.” He added quickly, his voice going harsh, he didn’t want to be blamed for this.

“That’s not the point!” The grip on the handle had gotten tighter, blunt nails digging into his palm. Then Sherlock was able to capture it with his own eyes.

“Are you crying?” The pitch in his voice betrayed him, he was more curious than he was shocked, why would John cry?

“No!” John was quick to deny, his right hand flying upwards and covered his eyes, but he couldn’t contain the sniffle that followed, he felt so foolish at the moment, why does he feel so robbed of his trust right now? It was just a coffee mug.

“Why are you crying? It was just a coffee mug.” Sherlock stated, his hand reaching out and yanked John’s wrist away from his face, his eyes taking up the sight of more tears welling in brilliantly colored eyes, John yanked his arm away with a glare.

“It was NOT JUST a coffee mug. It was mine!” John dropped his head, he tried blinking away the tears, but they only caught in his lashes, “It was my dad’s.” He croaked out. John had made peace with his parents’ death not long after they passed, he was deployed when it happened, the news was so disconnecting and he was glad they didn’t pass like people do in a war. After he had received the coffee mug, it was like he got a piece of his parents back, a small connection to what his father used to be; a simple man with a plain coffee mug he bought ages ago and had used it every day since. Those tears came in harder, he felt so shameful in this state, a grown man crying over a mug, ridiculous, placing the handle on the tray, fingers aching more out of his overwhelmed feelings rather than grip he had held the broken object in.

John stood there a bit awkwardly, the tips of his fingers pressed against the cool surface of the tray, he thought it would be childish to run, but he couldn’t do much else besides root himself in place. Sherlock on the other hand, he was frozen with captivation, he’d never seen John shed a tear, not even at his funeral, it only made the swell in his chest feel more intense.

“John, stop crying, it won’t stop it from being broken.” Sherlock wasn’t sure what to do, it was an accident that the mug had been broken, shouldn’t ‘don’t cry over spilled milk’ apply here as well? John made a shuttered inhale as he realized where Sherlock was going at, his head raising up to meet their eyes, squeezing them shut to get rid of the tears that clung to him.

“You don’t get it, do you?” He asked, feeling so deflated now, “I suppose you don’t.” John stated mostly to himself, his eyes drifting to the broken set. Sherlock took a step back, he hated not knowing and John’s tone suggested that not understanding this made him rather ignorant of something.

“What don’t I get?” He asked, he swiveled on his feet, surveying the room just in case there was any hint of the situation they were in, everything was much too calm, John cloistering himself close to the broken mug.

“My dad had this mug for 32 years, that actually a long time, Sherlock.” Fresh tears met John’s cheek as he dropped his head down, remembering himself as a small child, eating his breakfast, this coffee mug framed by the newspaper his father held up to read, “And I had it for barely a week and half.” A heavy hiccup shaking him from the chest, “It feels like such a waste.” A low whine emitting from his neck. Sherlock’s heart was beating like mad, try as he might, he couldn’t put John in his line of vision, and he didn’t get this, he knew it was sentiment, disappointment obviously.

With light, brisk steps, Sherlock had made the decision to escape to his bedroom, closing the door firmly while John was left in the sitting room, trying his damnedest to stop his tears. Of course Sherlock didn’t get this, he shouldn’t have expected him to. This was raw self-disappointment, almost like failure without the expectations of succeeding.

—–

Days had passed, John couldn’t quite bring himself to speak to Sherlock just yet, parting with the broken cup was completely out of the question, the tray and its contents sitting in the corner of the kitchen, he couldn’t help but glance at it while he did the dishes or wiped the counter. Sherlock had been at a loss since the incident, John wasn’t saying anything to him, and he knew this predicament enough to guess that it would be a terrible idea to try strike up a conversation himself. His fingers rapped on the keyboard, he wasn’t typing anything, he was trying to think of a phrase to type into the search bar, but all the words were wrong and he had looked up the location of where John’s father had gotten the mug. Sentiment was the issue, wasn’t it? ‘It wouldn’t be the same’ was an absurd thing, really. It would be exactly the same, except newer and shiner and with John’s own little future with a plain green coffee mug.

—-

After a successful day of discovery to his solution, Sherlock set his plan into motion immediately, he’d done the research and knew exactly what to do and what to expect. John on the other hand, wasn’t so thrilled or aware of the situation for that matter.

“Sherlock.” John hissed as he stepped out of the kitchen, it was that all too familiar frown, “Where the fuck is my mug?” He walked over, shoulders tight and eyes sharp. Sherlock took one look and averted his eyes.

“I don’t know.” He lied, finding an interest of the newspaper he read this morning. John stomped over, tearing the set of papers from his hands.

“I’m serious, where the fuck is my mug?!” He barked out, he wasn’t messing around right now, there was something boiling and gurgling in his chest. John’s hand shot out, taking Sherlock by the collar and pulled him forwards, “I swear to god of you binned it.”

“I didn’t.” Sherlock shot back, placing his hands on John’s shoulders, “I don’t know where it is, but I know that it’s not in the rubbish bins anywhere.” He stated firmly, he did have a vague idea of where it was, but nothing worth mentioning.

John had torn through the flat twice now, he even checked Mrs. Hudson’s just to make sure, nothing panned out and as time went by, John walked around like a caged tiger, going in circles around the flat and just waiting for a moment to strike. Sherlock was waiting on pins and needles, eyes darting to the door at least twice a day, it was starting to look like his shutters that were triggered by boredom and withdrawals.

—–

The bell rang and Sherlock was quick to make a bolt to the exit, flinging the door open enough for it to bounce off the wall, after throwing money at the problem, Sherlock sauntered upstairs, his steps were light and a smile on his face as he re-entered the flat holding a beautifully wrapped box.



“John!” He chimed as he stood in front of the tempered man, who had been hiding away in a book for the past two days, John looked up with a glare framed perfectly by a deep frown.

“What?” He asked, lowering the book, eyes darting to the box before looking back at the taller man, who seemed to be floating.

“Never mind this.” Sherlock reached for the book, flinging it over his shoulder and held the parcel to his flatmate, “Open!” He grinned, he knew he did well, this would make it better, he knew! John sighed with defeat, taking the parcel, placing it gently on his lap and unwrapped it. It was a box with a vivid mahogany shade with a brass latch, John bit his tongue as he opened it. It was the coffee mug, brows shot high on his forehead. “Do you like it?” Sherlock was quick to ask, taking his chair like a throne, folding his leg over the other and fingertips meeting together but his pose did not shadow the utter look of pride on Sherlock’s face.

John’s hand felt weak as he pulled the mug from the velvet frame. The plain green mug had a new shine to it, the handle was put perfectly in place and the broken rim in line just right, John could hear himself breath as he realized the seams of the repair were made of a brilliant shine of gold, the precious metal also repairing the chip that he knew had been there for ages.

“Do you like it?” Sherlock repeated, his tone more hopeful and light. John’s hand was shaking as he gently placed the mug back into the case, closing it firmly.



“I love it.” He wheezed out, covering his eyes with one hand as tears were quick to form today, his other hand dropping down to the armrest and clawed into the worn fabric. His heart felt too swollen for his chest, the warmth spreading over him actually made him feel colder, after wiping away the tears on his cheeks he moved his hand to place the box on the side table. “Come here.” He stood up. Sherlock was rather confused, but stood up anyways, frowning as John lunged forwards. He just said he ‘loved it’, why would- oh. All doubt was shot down as John pulled him into a hug, “I love it.” He repeated as he smiled into Sherlock’s neck, holding him firmly, embarrassed as he felt his heels lift off the floor. There was a flood of pride and relief that washed over Sherlock, looking down to the cup, turning his head to smile into John’s hair and after realizing this was something a little more, he wrapped his arms around John’s waist, pulling him closer.

John reveled in the feeling a little longer, he had to forgive Sherlock, what else was he supposed to do? He pulled back with a happy sigh, licking his lip as he realized Sherlock had yet to let go of him as well. His lips puckered slightly, eyes darting around as he attempted to clear his throat, Sherlock’s hold was firm, grinning down to the good man.

“I guess this means I forgive you?” He asked a little cheekily, one hand taking comfort in resting on Sherlock’s neck. The detective was once again enraptured, the way the tears clung to John’s eye lashes was beyond perfect.

“I’m sorry it disappeared for a bit there, John, but getting it repaired in Japan does take a bit of time.” He grinned, rubbing the small of John’s back. John sighed as he realized there was no escaping from this grip.

“Wait. Japan? Really?” John whipped himself around, looking to the box. Sherlock wasn’t quite ready to let go, so he shuffled around, so they could both turn their heads to look at the box.

“Yes, Japan. It’s called Kintsugi, an artisans repair pottery with powdered metals such as gold.” He explained rather formally. John chuckled through his nose as he looked up to the detective.

“Have I told you you’re amazing?” He asked, leaning back to get a good look at him, Sherlock had the perfect view as well, he could see the drying tears webbing between fine lashes.

“Not lately, no.” He answered, leaning forwards. John caught the movement rather quickly, ducking his head slightly with some mild feeling of defense, his tongue swiping his lips.

“You’re amazing.” John whispered, deciding to take the high dive by meeting the brilliant detective halfway into a kiss, unable to hold back a giggle that bubbled through.