"Okay...well," John says carefully. His eyes shift to look at Sherlock, then back down over the ledge. "Shit."
"Yes," Sherlock agrees. His eyes never move from the body hanging 30 feet below them. The rope was still swaying with slight momentum. John watches it rock back and forth along the ledge.
John stuffs his hands into his pockets, unsure of what to say. He sniffs, his nose cold in the brisk morning air. The sun is just starting to rise, and it turns the smooth lines of Sherlock's face pink and orange.
"You got anymore of those gummy worms?" John asks. Sherlock furrows his brow as he fishes around in his pocket. John hears the familiar crinkle of plastic as Sherlock pulls the bag out of his coat.
"Just the sour dust," Sherlock states flatly. There is a brief moment of silence when both he and John stare down at the empty candy bag in Sherlock's hand.
John shrugs and holds out his hand, "That'll do."
The thunder of foot steps coming up the stairs is so loud that it rips John out of a perfectly restful sleep.
There is a moment of panic that almost sends him barrel-rolling off the edge of his bed to reach for his rifle. It isn't until there is a rain of frantic knocks on his door, followed by the equally frantic "John!" that he realizes where he is. He is at 221B Baker Street. There is no rifle underneath his bed (only a baseball bat he found in the garbage).
Sherlock bursts into his room, and throws on the overhead light. John winces into the bright light and shouts at him, throwing his arm over his eyes. Sherlock seizes him by the arm and forcefully drags him into a sitting position. All the movement is too much for a sleepy John and he rips his arm from Sherlock's death grip.
"What the hell, Sherlock?" He blinks blearily up at him.
"John, you have to come with me right now," and it's the first time John has ever seen Sherlock express any real form of outward panic. He instantly knows that something bad has happened. He sits up completely straight and is immediately awake. Sherlock grabs his arm and hauls him from the bed, ignoring John's feeble attempts to grab a shirt to put on.
"Sherlock, what's going on? What happened? Is it a case?" John asks, allowing himself to be yanked down the stairs. He starts running through all the possibilities of what could possibly have Sherlock so frantic. A good case made him jump for joy, so John highly doubted that it was a case. Sherlock doesn't answer him, just pulls him to his bedroom door. John doesn't even have time to register what's happening before Sherlock opens his bedroom door and he sees what has him panicking.
John blinks, "Oh." He swallows. "Oh."
Rewind 5 minutes back to Sherlock not so much as knocking on John's door but throwing himself at John's door.
Rewind 15 minutes back to Sherlock watching the man before him, too deep in thought with writing notes about the twitch of the foot post-orgasm to realize that the man wasn't breathing.
Rewind 30 minutes back to Christian Dorian Grey saying, "Relax. I do this all the time. Just relax and enjoy, baby."
"'Christian Dorian Grey'?" John reads aloud from the card Sherlock hands him. "You fucked a male prostitute named Christian Dorian Grey?"
"I did not partake in any sexual act with him. And must you use such crude language, John? It makes you sound like an idiot," Sherlock scoffs.
John rubs a hand across his forehead and stares at the male body tied up at the foot of Sherlock's bed. His whole body is slowly starting to turn blue. John hasn't had enough sleep to deal with this kind of shit.
"Then what in God's name happened here?" He asks incredulously.
Sherlock stalks over to his chair and waves a notebook towards John, "Experiment."
"Experiment," John repeats slowly, measured. He feels as though he's not nearly as surprised as he should be.
"Yes," Sherlock confirms. He starts to flip through his notes, "I was studying the sexual preferences of male homosexuals and the physical effects of said preferences on the human body. Christian Dorian Grey happened to enjoy autoerotic asphyxiation."
He stops on his last page, "I was studying the post-orgasmic twitch of the outer extremities when..." He trails off, his eyes shifting to the very dead man at the foot of his bed.
John massages his temples, "So... you paid a male prostitute to jerk off while choking himself so you could take notes?"
"And in the midst of you being too deep in your mind palace, said male prositute chokes himself to death?" John asks.
Sherlock nods, again. John hopes he realizes just how bad this sounds.
"What could you possibly need that infor- you know what? I don't even want to know," He shakes his head and walks out of the bedroom, towards the kitchen.
"John? Where are you going?" Sherlock asks, and the panic in his infliction is clear and obvious. John hears his foot steps behind him but doesn't turn around.
"I need a cuppa before I can even begin to think about this, Sherlock."
John is halfway through a particularly strong cup of tea before he speaks again, "We can't tell Lestrade."
There is no way that he would buy Sherlock's story. John barely buys it - he only believes Sherlock because he knows him a bit too well.
Sherlock looks at him like he's sprouted two heads, offended almost,"Obviously."
John is still shirtless, but he feels pretty numb to the cold draft that 221B Baker Street always carried. He falls silent again as he sips his tea. There is a crinkle, a rustle of plastic, that makes John turn his head to see Sherlock digging through a bag of gummy worms.
Sherlock shoves a neon worm in to his mouth and looks at John. He doesn't say a word - only chews and swallows quickly.
"What are you doing?" John asks. Never mind that it's THREE in the morning (which may be a bit too early to be eating gummy worms) but it's Sherlock and Sherlock never eats.
"Stress eating," Sherlock replies around three gummy worms he's chomping on.
John blinks, "But you're never stressed."
John blinks again, "And you never eat."
Sherlock stops chewing, only to lick the sour dust off his fingers, "Yes, well drastic times call for drastic measures."
The gears in John's head turn and just as he's about to bring up calling Mycroft, Sherlock shoots him a deadly look that confirms to him that Sherlock is in fact a mind reader.
"What do we do then?" John asks.
Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes before digging through the bag of candy, "Isn't it obvious, John?"
John frowns, aggravated, "No, Sherlock. It's not obvious."
"We're going to wrap up the body and carry it into the back alley. We're then going to climb up the fire escape, tie a rope around his neck, and push him off the roof to emulate a suicide. You'll write the note - something like "goodbye cruel world" or whatever other woe you can think of that a male prostitute would have. We'll wait for someone else to make the call, but by the time the body is discovered, it'll be a very blatant suicide that'll be thrown aside by noon," Sherlock explains.
John huffs, "Why do I have to write the suicide note?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes again, "Don't be an idiot. My handwriting is too recognizable."
John abruptly slams his fist on the table, "Don't call the person who is going to help you an idiot."
He pushes himself away from the table and stands up, "I don't need this. I'm going back to bed. Figure this shit out yourself. "
As he's stomping from the room, he hears the chair scrape along the floor as Sherlock scrambles to him. He wraps his sticky fingers around John's arm, "Please, John. I'm sorry I called you an idiot."
John stops, but doesn't turn around. The fingers around his arm tighten as Sherlock pleads, "Please, John."
He closes his eyes and counts to ten. He's silent just long enough for Sherlock to whisper, "I need you, John. I need your help."
John rips his arm from Sherlock's grasp and turns around, pointing his fingers at the taller man, "Fine. I'll help. But I want all of your red and blue gummy worms, or no deal."
Sherlock sends a forlorn glance towards the package of gummy worms in his hands before he shoves them towards John, "Fine. Deal."
Fastforward to ten minutes from now, when John has finally put a jumper on. Sherlock wrestles with Christian Dorian Grey as he tries to put his clothes back on him. "Please, John. No one would hang themselves naked," Sherlock had scoffed.
Fastforward to twenty minutes from now, when John and Sherlock are carrying out a sheet wrapped Christian Dorian Grey whose body was slowly growing heavier as decay began. "We have to move him before rigor mortis kicks in, or else it'll be almost impossible for us to carry him out of here barehanded," John explained. Sherlock had tossed him a look that blatantly read 'I know that, you idiot' but kept his mouth shut. John was grateful that he did because he was sleep deprived enough to not give a shit about punching Sherlock.
Fastforward to thirty minutes from now, when Sherlock loses his footing and drops a very dead Christian Dorian Grey down the stairs by Mrs. Hudson's door. "Shit, shit, shit," Sherlock actually swears as he hurries to catch the body. John is already picturing himself in jail.
"Are you sure you didn't have sex with him?" John asks as they hoist the body up the fire escape stairs. The rising sun was providing just enough light for them to see where they were going. Sherlock stares up at John, eyes widened with shock, and he moves Christian Dorian Grey's feet up onto his shoulders.
"Please, John. Small boils along his shoulders, faint 'liver spots' along the knuckles of his hands, thinning gums, slight sagging in skin around the mid section to suggest abrupt weight loss, while the lack of shaking and dark circles around the eyes rule out drug use," Sherlock states, and John is still confused.
"I could practically smell his HIV. Honestly, you're the doctor here," Sherlock scoffs. John is too concerned on not dropping the body to reply. His arms are aching as he wraps his arms around Christian Dorian Grey's shoulders. He tries to manuveur around so he can step off the landing onto the roof. Sherlock pushes the body forward too hard, and sends John toppling over the ledge, which means that John is then pinned by a very dead Christian Dorian Grey. Sherlock scurries up on to the roof after him and rolls the body off John. John blinks and shudders and thinks that there is just not water hot enough to wash away how gross he feels right now.
"Are you okay?" Sherlock asks, fingers twisting themselves in the front of John's coat as he hauls him up to his feet. John nods and looks down at the body at their feet. The sheet has slipped, exposing the male prostitute's face, dead eyes staring right up at John. He shrugs out of Sherlock's grasp, "Let's get this over with."
"John, that is not how you tie a noose."
John is incredibly creeped out by how well Sherlock can tie a noose.
"Why don't we just burn the body... or something..." The words are out of his mouth before John can stop them.
Sherlock looks up from the pushing the body towards the ledge. He sighs impatiently, "John. You know as well as I do that bones do not burn, and neither do teeth. If we were to burn him, it's automatically classified as a murder. And you, of all people, should know that a burning body can produce a smell that people over half a mile away can detect."
John huffs because he knows Sherlock is right. He pins his note to Christian Dorian Grey before Sherlock rolls him off the ledge. There is a brief moment when John holds his breath until he sees the rope tighten and sway with the force of the drop. John's a bit ashamed at the sense of relief he feels.
"What did you write in the note?"
"I just copied Virginia Woolf's suicide note. I figured it fit with someone who went by Christian Dorian Grey."
"... That's brilliant, John."
"...What did you just say?"
The two of them stand there, John shifting his weight from foot to foot, unsure of what to do. Sherlock stares out into the sun rise before taking a deep breath and turning to John.
"Yes, well, that's down," He states, and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his long coats. "Want to grab an omelet down at that 24 hour diner?"
John is about to protest - something about bad timing - but his stomach growls, "I'd kill a man for an omelet right now."
He pauses and exchanges a look with Sherlock before they both burst out laughing. He stops when he thinks of something.
"But seriously, Sherlock. Why were you doing this experiment?"
Sherlock's face falls, and he turns away, trying to walk past John. He reaches out and grabs Sherlock's arm, keeping him in place. The taller man straightens his shoulders, refusing to look down at John, "Now is not the time."
John is aggravated again, "Now is the perfect time. I just helped you move a body. I just assisted you in a crime." His waves his free hand towards the ledge they just pushed Christian Dorian Grey off of.
Sherlock fidgets but looks down at the ground, "I was gathering research in the hopes that I could collect enough to formulate a plan of attack when it came to seducing you."
John blinks and releases his arm from his grasp, "Seducing... me...?"
Sherlock leans forward, "Isn't it obvious, John?"
When he presses a kiss to the apple of John's cheeks, his heads swims. He hasn't had nearly enough caffeine OR sleep to deal with this shit.
"Omelets," Sherlock states, straightening and walking back towards the fire escape. John's head is still spinning with the idea that Sherlock could possibly want him.
Sherlock could possibly want him, John Watson. John Watson.
He feels his cheeks pink - he's not nearly as surprised as he feels he should be.
"Yes, omelets," He agrees, and follows Sherlock.
Chapter 2: Chapter Two
Lestrade rolls his eyes and pockets the card, “Leave it up to a guy named Christian Dorian Grey to copy Virginia Woolf’s suicide note.”
Wow, you guys sure know how to make a lady feel special. I wasn't planning to add to this, but I figured why not. Thank you so much for humoring my crack-tastic blurbs. Love you all, really. You're all just tops. XOXO, JSB
“Well?” Sherlock asks and he’s dangerously close to John. He can feel his hot breath push across his face. Sherlock is looming over him, leering down at him over the bridge of his nose with a weird sort of glee in his eyes. There’s a glimmer of mischief in Sherlock’s twinkling eyes that John doesn’t like – not one bit. John attempts to say something once, twice, three times but words fail him. 221B is so eerily quiet that John almost wishes some of the excitement of the morning trickled into the evening (minus the whole dead prostitute thing – so really, John should just be grateful for the peace and quiet).
He closes his eyes and leans his head against the rest on his arm chair. He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. His silence annoys Sherlock, and John hears the rustle and crinkle of papers along with the pacing footsteps of the taller man. He peeks an eye open to look at the detective and Sherlock stops in his tracks. He turns to face John, and as he holds his open notebook out towards him, Sherlock gives him the most pleading look John’s ever seen. His eyes round big, like a puppy’s, and he drops down to his knees in front of John.
“Please, John. Just let me do this one experiment and I’ll never ask for your help, or your assistance ever again, and it would really be wonderful if you could participate since I went through all this trouble to collect all this data and information, and I know that you’ve done a lot for me today, and I’m sure you’ll mutter some profanity that describes me under your breath, but I’d really appreciate if you were my volunteer since the information is technically about you, so please?” Sherlock pushes the notebook underneath John’s nose with a quiver of his pointed chin. It smells stale, like cigarette smoke.
John takes a deep breath and suddenly, it feels like his lungs won’t hold all the air he needs. He hasn’t slept yet, and his weariness is really starting to set in. His shoulders and eyes feel heavy with exhaustion. With a heaving sigh, he exhales and sits up straight in his chair.
“Fine,” He huffs. He only agrees because he knows Sherlock only talks in run-on sentences when he’s really excited
“Alright, John, I’ll get started.”
“If you get an erection, the experiment is over.”
Rewind back ten minutes to Sherlock sliding behind John as he nods off in his warm, comfy chair. He lowers his mouth to John’s ear, and says, “I want to test some of the theories I’ve formulated.”
John shivers and leans away from Sherlock, pretending he doesn’t understand what he’s talking about (really, though, Sherlock’s little roof top ‘confession’ is all John has been able to think about). Sherlock came round the chair, determined, “You get goose bumps every time you scratch a certain spot on your neck. Sometimes, when you think no one is watching, you rub at the spot for longer than necessary, meaning that you either have an awful rash or you enjoy the stimulation. Subject Private Gabriel Dancer enjoyed having his neck licked, kissed, bitten, and touched. With this information in mind, I would like to analyze this spot on your neck, using different techniques to stimulate said spot, and test my theory.”
John swallows heavily, and feels the whole room grow just a bit warmer, “And your theory is?”
Sherlock doesn’t reply. Instead, he leans forward (severely invading John’s personal space) and tentatively presses the spot just below his ear. John nearly jumps out of his skin and jerks his head back. His cheeks flush immediately at the sight of Sherlock’s smug smirk.
“So, you’ll let me run the experiments,” comes from Sherlock’s mouth as he scribbles quickly in his notebook. It’s not a question. John is scared.
“Wait, wait, wait.”
“Who the fuck is Private Gabriel Dancer?”
“A…colleague (?) of Christian Dorian Grey…”
“Jesus, Sherlock. How many prostitutes have you had in this flat?”
“… I’m really unsure of whether I should respond honestly or not…”
Rewind back five hours to John and Sherlock seating themselves in the corner of the very empty twenty-four hour diner a few blocks up from where they ‘dropped off’ Christian Dorian Grey. John orders coffee, his hands shaking as he asks about the omelets they offer. When the waitress suggest the house specialty, waffles, John panics and orders an omelet and the waffles because oh my God, oh my God – the waitress knows. The old man sitting at the coffee bar knows, everyone knows, and John is going to jail if he doesn’t order the waffles
He drinks – actually pounds – his coffee in one huge gulp, not realizing and not really caring how hot the liquid is. The burn of the coffee down his windpipe calms the panic that is making his spine tingle. It makes him remember that he’s with Sherlock – he was, after all, the best person to be stuck with in this kind of ‘situation’.
The wail of sirens flying down the street makes John’s stomach fall down to his feet. All the air leaves his lungs and for a second, he can’t breathe. He can’t think. All he hears is an oddly loud buzzing noise as everything goes fuzzy. Just for a second. He closes his eyes and inhales and remembers where he is, who he’s with. The noise of sirens fade, but not that much. John doesn’t need to have Sherlock’s power of deduction to deduce where they were stopped (just a few blocks down… what a coincidence). He looks across the table to Sherlock, and John realizes that he hasn’t said a word since they left the roof top. Sherlock looms down at his phone placed in the center of the table, glaring over his hands steepled in front of his face. Even when their food gets placed in front of them, Sherlock remains quiet, his eyes never wavering from his mobile. He doesn’t touch his food, and it annoys John. He wants to complain, but he digs into his waffles and Bloody Nora – the waffles are astounding.
The shrill beep of Sherlock’s mobile makes John stop mid chew – a text. Lestrade. Sherlock reaches out and immediately reads it. He takes a second, a deep breath, and sets his phone down. He doesn’t make eye contact with John, doesn’t even look at John. Instead, he ducks his head, picks up his fork, and begins to shovel food in his mouth.
John’s not sure he’s ever seen Sherlock eat with that must enthusiasm.
John’s not sure he’s even chewing.
John swallows his mouthful of delicious waffle, “Sherlock?”
Sherlock doesn’t stop eating. Over an incredible full mouthful of omelet, he mumbles, “They found the body. They want us at the scene. They think there is malicious intent.”
John turns towards his waffles again, cutting a large piece, “Murder?” He can’t help how nonchalant he sounds. He wants to panic, he wants to be anxious and worried, but seriously – these waffles. Easily the best waffles he’s ever eaten. Really, what is that spice? And John literally wants to bathe in that bloody maple syrup they’ve put all over it.
Sherlock doesn’t respond. He only throws his fork down and sticks his hand in the air, waving dramatically at their waitress. John looks up but doesn’t comment; his mouth is too full of what Jesus must have ate at his last supper. The waitress quickly comes to the table and Sherlock looks up at her, eyes wide with anxiety.
“Yes, I want onion rings,” Sherlock demands.
The waitress stares at him, “It’s 6 in the morning.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes, “If I can get an omelet twenty hours a day, I should be able to get an order of onion rings. No, I want two orders of onions rings, extra crispy. I will also need some pie, preferably banofee. Do you have that neon orange cheese sauce? I want to dip everything in cheese.”
The waitress blinks at Sherlock. John’s just glad to see him eat.
“Sherlock, what’s the spice in these waffles?”
“Cinnamon, cardamom, ginger… John. Those are exceptional waffles.”
They’re halfway through the second order of onion rings before they speak again.
John says to Sherlock around a mouthful of onion rings, “We’re going to have to figure out what we’re going to do.”
Sherlock mumbles something in response.
It could be, “Yes. I know we do. But I have no idea where to start.”
It could be, “These are really great onion rings.”
Both are equally true.
When they basically waddle back to where Christian Dorian Grey was ‘hanging out’, John is too full to care. He’s tired and basically bursting at his seams, and right now, he doesn’t even mind going to jail because he’d be able to lie down… even if it was on one of those beds that smelled like urine and one too many men named ‘Bubba’.
The body of Christian Dorian Grey was no longer hanging. Instead, he was laid out on a sheet on the ground. The rope was still wrapped tightly around his neck. They passed Anderson, and Donovan, but Sherlock was too frantic to even register what they were saying. His eyes were fixated forward, on the body that was laying out in front of Lestrade.John tries to act like he has no idea what is going on, like it’s not all familiar, when Lestrade turns to them,
“There you are,” He greets and hooks his thumb over his shoulder, “Apparent suicide. We have the note.”
He hands John the familiar note with the familiar hand writing and the familiar words. He tries to pretend to knit his brows in surprise as he reads it. Sherlock pushes past him and Lestrade and glares at Christian Dorian Grey. He pretends to examine him just as John pretends to read the note.
“Really beautiful stuff there,” Lestrade comments, nodding towards the note. “Really troubled guy. I almost feel sorry for him.”
John has the stop the laugh in his throat. He hands the note back to Lestrade and mumbles, “It’s Virginia Woolf’s suicide note.”
Sherlock makes a noise somewhere between a squawk and that weird ‘bah’ sound sheep make. He turns to John with panicked eyes and John feels a twinge of self-satisfaction at the detective’s distress.
Lestrade raises his eyebrows, “John? I didn’t take you for quite the literary man. You’re a fan of Virginia Woolf?”
John scoffs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Sarcastically, he replies, “Love the dead broad.”
Lestrade doesn’t pick up on his sarcasm.
“You said there was malicious intent,” Sherlock announces, “And I see none.”
Lestrade clucks his tongue and turns his back to John, folding his arms across his chest, “Yes. We didn’t see it, either. Surprised, though, that you didn’t pick it up. We were getting ready to cut him down and ship him off to Bart’s for identification when Anderson pointed out that his shirt was on backwards.”
His shirt was on backwards.
His shirt was on backwards.
John wanted to strangle Sherlock. Because earlier that morning he watched Sherlock wrestle with the very dead Christian Dorian Grey to put his clothes back on him. He wants to strangle Sherlock, and Sherlock wants to strangle Anderson, and John wants to strangle Anderson too because right now, that smug look on his slimy face is pissing John off.
Sherlock is flailing, much like a Muppet, too apprehensive for his own good. John realizes that no one is really paying attention to him, because honestly, they’ve all seen Sherlock do some weird things at crime scenes. Because Sherlock was, in fact, weird. John runs a hand over his face and approaches the body. He squats down by Christian Dorian Grey’s head and takes a deep breath. His back is to Lestrade and with Sherlock running about like Kermit the Frog, John has to be the one to swoop in right now. He pokes at his skin, runs a finger under the collar of his shirt, and moves down to his legs. He pats down his pockets where he knows Christian Dorian Grey keeps his ‘business’ cards. He reaches in and takes one out, glancing at it for a second before handing it to Lestrade.
“Suicide,” John states firmly.
Lestrade blinks and sends John a puzzled look, “How can you tell?”
John moves back to Christian Dorian Grey’s head, and uses the cuff of his sleeve to open his mouth, “Boils and rashes along his shoulders and neck, liver spots on his hands and chest, thinning gums, white film along tongue, sunken in cheeks yet no dark circles around the eyes to suggest drug use. This man is HIV positive. In fact,” John moves and pries open one of his eyes, “By the state of his eyes and mouth, I’d say full blown AIDS. Close to, if not the late stages, probably nearing delirium. Suffering no doubt and wanting to end his suffering.”
Sherlock stops pacing and positively gapes at John. John feels like giving himself the biggest pat on the arse ever. He deserves an award, a bloody BAFTA for that performance. Everyone around him is staring and blinking and completely convinced.
Lestrade whistles through his teeth, “You just gave Sherlock a run for his money.”
Sherlock scoffs behind him, but John is almost shivering from the look that Sherlock sending him. Gratitude. Pride. And what is that? Adoration? John wants to cross his fingers and pray that it is. Lestrade starts to signal wrap up, but Anderson – fucking Anderson – pushes his way forward.
“Wait. His shirt though. It’s on backwards,” Anderson protests. John wants to slap him.
“Anderson, your shirt is on backwards,” John states flatly. Sherlock snorts behind him, “Idiot.”
Anderson sputters and looks down under his sterile blue cover. The black tag of his shirt greeted him, poking out just a little from under his collar in the front. The group gets a good chuckle out of Anderson’s stupidity, which makes John and Sherlock incredibly happy.
“I’m really surprised that Sally didn’t catch that this morning, Anderson,” Sherlock replies snidely.
Lestrade is still looking down at the card in his hand. After a moment, he jeers, “Christian Dorian Grey, huh?”
He then rolls his eyes and pockets the card, “Leave it up to a guy named Christian Dorian Grey to copy Virginia Woolf’s suicide note.”
John feels all smug again, “Rather hysterical, isn’t it?”
Fast forward fifteen minutes and John is dragging himself up the stairs of 221B Baker Street with Sherlock hot on his heels. John just wants to shower and sleep and forget that the day ever happened. He can almost smell Christian Dorian Grey on his skin still, and immediately walks straight to the bathroom once his feet hit the sitting room floor. Sherlock stalks into the kitchen, collar of his jacket still pulled up past his ears. John doesn’t think about anything for a while after that. He stands under the scalding water, but it doesn’t burn him. It actually feels wonderful. He’s starting to feel clean again, and his muscles are starting to relax and his brow is starting to soften when Sherlock barges into the bathroom and throws the shower curtain open.
“Sherlock!” John shrieks and covers himself with the curtain. “What the hell!?”
“John, it is dire importance that you come to the sitting room immediately after you’re finished,” Sherlock states, face void of emotion. John bristled at his casual demeanor, when there was absolutely nothing casual about storming into the bathroom while your flat mate is naked in the shower.
“Sherlock, I locked the bloody door,” John started but Sherlock scoffs and peers at John condescendingly.
“Honestly, John. I can easily deduce an entire murder and backstory from a fleck of paint on the ground. Do you honestly think I can’t pick a lock? I’m really offended by your lack of intelligence.”
John really wants to smother Sherlock with the shower curtain.
Fast forward thirty minutes. John is sitting in his chair, gripping the arms so hard that his knuckles are stark white.
Fast forward two minutes and Sherlock is leaning over the back of his chair, stroking the sensitive spot underneath John’s ear. John’s heart is pounding so hard that he’s sure Sherlock can hear it, and for the life of him, he can’t figure out why he agreed to this. His whole body feels warm and tingly and he’s doing everything he can to remain calm. When Sherlock then scrapes a fingernail softly over the spot, John feels his toes curl.
Fast forward three minutes and Sherlock is satisfied with the data he’s collected. He scribbles brief notes in his notebook, and John takes a deep breath because he thinks he’s off the hook. Sherlock rounds the chair and climbs onto John’s lap before he can even register what is happening. He freezes as Sherlock straddles him and pushes his head gently to the side. John is about to protest, about to shove him off his lap, but when Sherlock dips his head and blows on the spot below his ear, John melts.
Fast forward another three minutes, and John can’t breathe. He can’t breathe because Sherlock’s lips are fastened to John’s neck, working magical circles around the sensitive spot below his ear. The air around him is filled with Sherlock, and he can’t breathe around Sherlock, but John doesn’t even care. He doesn’t care because my God – whatever Sherlock is doing is amazing. Seriously. Sherlock. John can’t believe Sherlock is making him feel like his nerve endings are on fire.
Another two minutes from now, Sherlock sinks his teeth into the spot below his ear and John can’t help the strangled groan that slips through his lips. It feels like sparklers are going off in John’s spine, and his trousers grow a bit tighter. John should feel ashamed but he can’t because he can’t even remember the last time something has feel this good. When Sherlock does it again, John whimpers and his hands shoot out to grasp Sherlock’s hips tightly. The breathy little gasp that comes from the detective on top of him surprises him. Sherlock pulls away and stares down at him. His dark curls are in his eyes, but he clearly doesn’t care. The sight of his bruised lips makes John want to pant. Sherlock makes a satisfied noise and scribbles down more notes in his notebook.
John can’t help the small squeeze he gives Sherlock’s hips as he writes. His entire body feels so tingly and warm and the spot that Sherlock had been nursing for ten minutes now is sending electric shocks under his skin. He looks up at Sherlock, and squeezes his hips again, a bit harder. John whispers, “C’mere.”
Sherlock’s pen pauses on the page as he peers down at John over the edge of the notebook. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but the soft pink flush across his high cheekbones gives him away. Oh, he’s enjoying this. Sherlock sets his notebook down on the arm of the chair and stares at him, not moving closer. Not closing the distance that John wants closed so badly. John squeezes his hips harder, pressing his thumbs against his lower abdomen, just the right amount of pressure. Sherlock closes his eyes and licks his swollen lips and John almost cheers in victory.
“Please,” He manages to rasp out. Sherlock opens his eyes, and tucks his chin back into John’s neck. His hands travel up to John’s waist, where he scrapes his fingernails over his jumper and John shakes as he feels the motion over his ribs. He closes his eyes as Sherlock softly kisses the sensitive spot, soothing the faint bite marks, and John can’t stop the small noises he’s making in the back of his throat. His hands grip tighter and Sherlock makes a noise that vibrates across John’s skin and all John wants to do is throw Sherlock down and ravish him. He wants to pull him into his body, consume him, and make him make more noises, louder noises.
Somewhere in the back of John’s mind, he realizes how crazy that sounds. He wants Sherlock. And if the breathy moans coming from his mouth meant anything, Sherlock clearly wanted John too. Absolutely insane to think about. Sherlock runs a trail of very wet kisses up his neck to John’s ear.
“What are you thinking?” He asks, lips wrapping themselves around John’s earlobe. He sinks his teeth into the flesh of his ear and John gasps. He’s so confused, because can’t Sherlock see what he’s thinking. He feels teeth nip at his ear again, and he says the first thing that comes to his mind,
“This is weird.”
Sherlock freezes and pulls back and John realizes that what he said was wrong, wrong, wrong and dumb, dumb, dumb. He shakes his head and tries again,
“I have to go to bed.”
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Dumb, dumb, dumb.
John stops talking because CLEARLY his brain and mouth are not working together. He wants to crawl into bed and die a little. Sherlock is staring down at him, and John can’t tell what he’s thinking and that bothers him. He can never tell what Sherlock is thinking. Sherlock touches his fingertips to his lips and climbs off John’s laps and John wants to whine and pout.
“Yes, you’re right. It’s been a long morning. I have notes to review. You can use my bed, if you don’t want to climb the stairs. You look dead on your feet, anyway,” Sherlock states blankly. He holds a hand out to John though, and gives him a small, sincere smile before he hauls John to his feet. For a second, John stands there stunned, but after a brief nudge from Sherlock, he makes his way out of the sitting room.
“We’ll pick up where we left off when you wake,” John hears. He pauses mid step and turns to find Sherlock flipping through his notebook with a sly smile across his swollen lips. John swallows and nods, “I uh… look forward to it.”
He really means that. Sherlock peeks up at him, and while he locks eyes with John, he says, “I’m going to pin you to the couch and kiss you for an hour. That’s the next experiment.”
John doesn’t even want to sleep anymore, but his eyelids are growing heavy and his body is so weary that he’s starting to fall asleep where he stands. He takes a deep breath and turns back around. Over his shoulder, he calls, “I don’t like a lot of tongue, but if you bite my bottom lip, I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”
He doesn’t hear a response, but then again, he doesn’t expect one. John smiles and walks straight to Sherlock’s room.
Mycroft rolls his eyes dramatically, “You hung a dead, male prostitute off a building in almost broad daylight. Did you really think I wouldn’t know about it?”
This is the final chapter for AE. Don't cry for me, Argentinaaaa. A little less cracky, a little more fluffy but c'mon now... who doesn't love some fluff? Get yourself in the mood by listening to Deftones "Digital Bath". Super foxy. You all are just so beautiful, and you all made this experience so much more enjoyable. Thank you for the kudos and feedback so so very much. I've got some great ideas that I really can't wait to share with you. XOXO, JSB
For a second, that’s all John can hear. Buzzzz. Everything is fuzzy and warped and he’s so shocked that all he does is stare down at the disc in his hands.
John H. Watson is written in pen across the front of the case. Simple, clean, and John is so confused. The black letters blur together in a dark blob in front of his eyes. His cheeks are warm, blazing actually, and though he knows he should say something, he can’t. Buzzzz.
Sherlock’s head is turned towards the window, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers. Shoulders rigid, jaw tight and clenched – he’s nervous. John blinks up at him, once, twice, then clears his throat. He scrubs a sweaty palm across his forehead, and he drops the disc case in his lap. He can’t stop staring at it – even as he tries to turn his attention towards other things around the flat, he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the curious object in his lap. John shakes his head and tries to push out some form of words, but all that comes out is a rush of air.
Sherlock won’t look at him. The longer he remains quiet, the more Sherlock turns away from him. His back is to John now, and he watches as Sherlock takes a deep, shuddering breath and bows his head. John wants to reach for him, to grip his rigid arm and turn him around. He wants Sherlock to look at him, but he’s not sure he can bear the bright eyed gaze of the detective. He wants to say something, but God damn it, he can’t.
He’s just so confused.
Buzzz – The buzzing sound clears and now all that remains is the unnerving sound of silence throughout 221B. John thinks he likes the buzzing sound better.
He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a breath and forces out a long, strained, “So…”
Sherlock’s head snaps over his shoulder and John’s chest constricts at the look in his eyes. He’s tense. Worried. He’s a different kind of anxious now. He’s not running around like a mad man, or binging on breakfast items like he was earlier that morning. He looks hurt. He looks crushed. He turns and walks towards John, his hand reaching out for the disc on his lap.
“John, forget about this. It was really stupid of me and –“ John can’t bear the sound of defeat in his voice. He snatches the disc from his lap and holds it away from Sherlock.
“No,” He says firmly. Sherlock’s hand is still outstretched and his eyebrows are knitted in desperation. Desperation to get away from the situation.
“John, please. Really. Just give me the disc and we’ll forget this ever happened. I’m sorry I eve-“John hates the despair, the pleading in Sherlock’s words. John shakes his head – that’s not Sherlock. That’s not his Sherlock. Never mind that he just referred to the detective as ‘his’. Never mind that it’s late, and John has had the most miserable of days. Never mind anything because John is not going to stand for this Sherlock. John refuses to settle with anything other than his Sherlock.
“No,” John states, squaring his shoulders. Sherlock ignores him though, and keeps reaching for the case John held above his head. He knows what would happen if Sherlock got a hold of the disc. He can see it through the look in his eyes. He would take the disc from John and retreat to his bedroom and then there would be silence. Not the average silence that John basked in after the result of an experimental explosion in the kitchen. The kind of silence that makes his skin crawl. The kind of silence that he can’t break, because Sherlock would draw into this stoic cocoon he spent forever perfecting and then he would leave John alone. Sherlock would sit across from John, a million miles away, and to John, that was worse than not having Sherlock here at all. He couldn’t have that. He couldn’t be alone like that – he couldn’t be without Sherlock.
And maybe that’s what John needed to tell himself all along. What would John be with Sherlock? He wouldn’t be anything. He’d be lonely John Watson, ex-military doctor, who looked ten years older than he actually was because he frowned so damn much. Sherlock gave him life, Sherlock gave him everything. John was thriving because of Sherlock. Sherlock.
The frantic detective takes a step back and lowers his hand. With his chin to his chest, he looks like such a wounded little boy. John reaches out tentatively and simply touches the fabric of Sherlock’s pants. His fingers wind themselves through a belt loop and he tugs just a little to get Sherlock to look at him. He doesn’t, though. Instead, Sherlock drops down to his knees and clasps John’s free hand in his and looks into his eyes. John feels his heart racing. Sherlock’s eyes are glistening with unshed tears, his chin quivering so slightly that John almost thinks he was seeing things. He feels like such a tit – he knows he should say something, but for the life of him, he can’t think of what to say.
How can John put into words how he feels about Sherlock? What does he say to the man whom he owes everything to? He could say that he loves him. He could say ‘I love you’. It’s amazing how difficult those three words are to say, isn’t it? It seems so… anticlimactic. How John feels about Sherlock – it’s the craziest fucking thing in the world, like he’s on a roller coaster twenty-four-seven, on one of those sudden drops that makes his stomach flutter and fly into his throat. He feels like the world is just spinning, spinning, spinning in a whirl of lines and colors all around him, and the two of them are the only things standing still. He feels like his whole life has been inconsequential until the moment that he met Sherlock, like all the school, the friends, the scraped knees and the broken hearts have all just been training for the day that Sherlock would walk into his life. He had never be able to understand it until he saw Sherlock, and the whole meaning of the world clicked into place.
“John, please,” He pleads, and his voice is soft and broken. “I’m so sorry that I did this. I’m so sorry. We can just forget about this. We can forget this ever happened. I’m such an idiot. I can’t lose you, John. I can’t. So, please. Please, just give me the disc, and everything can go back to normal.”
He lowers his head to John’s lap and rests his forehead on the hand that he has clasped in his own. John swears he can feel a kiss being placed on the back of his hand. He definitely feels wetness on his hand, and when Sherlock sniffles and lifts his head, John can see tears beginning to spill down his cheeks. The sight of his tears gives John the words he was looking for.
“Don’t you dare apologize to me for how you feel, Sherlock Holmes. You just… surprised me, that’s all,” John starts, softly. He pulls his fingers from Sherlock’s belt loop and rests his hand on top of his mop of curly hair. Sherlock’s eyes close at John’s touch, but he remains rigid and stiff. John smiles, trying his hardest to break apart Sherlock’s frown, “I don’t ever want to hear you apologize for your feelings, especially when I’m involved.”
Sherlock’s shoulders slowly start to relax. John takes it as a small victory. He continues, “I’m not going anywhere. You will never lose me. I’ll stay right here, right beside you until we’re old and ornery and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Sherlock grabs the hand in his hair and pulls it down to John’s lap to join his other hand. His fingers tighten around John’s, but he doesn’t mind. His hands feel warm and he can’t help but notice how perfectly his hands fit within Sherlock’s. How right it seems to feel.
Sherlock frowns, and furrows his brow, “Why? Why will you always be here?”
John pauses, because he’s unsure how to answer. He shifts fractionally in his spot and squeezes Sherlock’s fingers, “Can’t you deduce that?”
Sherlock grimaces, and he looks down at John’s lap where their fingers intertwine together, “I don’t want to assume anymore. Not with you. Not with this.”
John slowly removes one hand from Sherlock’s, and reaches forward to wipe away a tear pooled just above his cheek bone. He sighs, though he’s not sure why. His hand lingers longer than necessary, but John enjoys the softness of Sherlock’s skin under his fingers. Sherlock immediately leans into John’s touch, though his eyes watch him like a hawk, wary and apprehensive. John smiles again, and rubs his thumb across a sharp cheekbone before replying, “Because you’re my everything, Sherlock.”
For a second, for one precious second, it seems like the world stops. Or so John thinks. For a second, there’s only Sherlock and John staring at each other, and something clicks in John’s head. All those times, all those moments when he would peer up at Sherlock and see that unreadable gaze, John finally understands. Suddenly, they weren’t so inscrutable anymore. Because here, right at this moment, Sherlock was crouched in front of John and the look in his eyes was nothing other than love. Adoration. John feels a little stupid. A little dull. Why had he not seen it before?
‘Yes, you see, but you don’t observe’. John chuckles out loud as he hears Sherlock’s baritone voice echoing in his head. He chooses not to explain himself as Sherlock raises an eyebrow to him. Instead, he reaches forward and seizes a handful of Sherlock’s shirt and pulls lightly. Sherlock doesn’t move at first, but as John tugs again, he raises himself from his knees and allows John to pull him. John leans back on the couch, dragging Sherlock with him until the taller man is nestled firmly on top of him. Sherlock freezes, keeping himself propped on his elbows, his eyes wide and curious and surprised. John grins up at him, and settles into the couch cushions. He spreads his knees just a little and runs his hands down Sherlock’s waist until he gets to his hips. He squeezes, firmly, because he knows Sherlock enjoys that. And enjoy it, he does. The detective gaze changes from astonished wonder to a darkened gaze that made John feel like he was prey – like he was to be about attacked, ravaged. John squeezes Sherlock’s hips again, his fingers digging into where his hip bones jutted out – he wants to be devoured.
Sherlock sucks in a breath, and his hips move against John, and they both gasp at the electric current that shoots between them. Delicious friction. John wets his lips and Sherlock’s watching every move he makes, and John tilts his head and says, “So, let’s get on with this experiment, yeah?”
“Can I please have the disc back?”
“No, it has my name on it… therefore it’s mine.”
“It’s not every day that you’re serenaded by Sherlock Holmes.”
“Serenade? Really, John?”
“Well, that’s what you were doing, serenading me…”
“In the simplest of terms, I suppose.”
“With Elton John.”
“From my research, Elton John is a very talented and respectable artist.”
“Oh, for sure. He’s great. It’s just… that’s so… ordinary of you.”
“You know, if this was any other situation, I wouldn’t hesitate to call you an idiot.”
Rewind back two months and three days. John wakes up to the sound of Led Zeppelin drifting up the stairs. He’s not angry – quite the opposite in fact. He actually rather likes Led Zeppelin. As he lay in bed though, under the warmth of the duvet, he realizes that it’s the same song on repeat – Black Dog. He gets out of bed and shuffles downstairs to make himself a cuppa. He hums along – hey baby, oh baby, pretty baby, tell me that you’ll do me now. When he steps into the sitting room, he greets Sherlock, who is in front of the window. He doesn’t reply, just turns and flicks off the music. John frowns into the silence. Sherlock is watching him – observing him.
“Experiment,” Sherlock states, expressionless as he nods his head towards his laptop that the music was previously coming from. John nods and smiles up at him, blinking away the morning light in his groggy eyes, “I like Led Zeppelin.”
Sherlock doesn’t say anything, he just turns back to the window. John sips at his tea and opens the paper. He hums Black Dog all day.
The following day, John wakes up to another Led Zeppelin song – Whole Lotta Love.
The day after that, it’s a Stones’ song – Wild Horses.
Then it’s Pink Floyd – Wish You Were Here
When John wakes up to Elton John – Your Song – he groans into his pillow. He had spent a large portion of the 70’s hearing the song blare from Harry’s room. It wasn’t that he hated the song, it was just that he had heard it so many times that it was just old now. The song is nevertheless stuck in his head all day. Sarah teases him at the clinic when she hears him singing it softly in the break room.
When John wakes up to The Moody Blues – Nights in White Satin – he wanders down to the sitting room and waves off Sherlock’s attempt to turn the music off. He sits in his chair and leans his head back and listens with his eyes closed. The song, it brings back so many memories. Memories of being sprawled on the carpet of his bedroom, passing around a pipe between his friends. Memories of kissing 15 year old Darcy Thomas, wondering what would happen if he slipped his hand up her lacy shirt. He opens his eyes and looks at Sherlock as he sits on the sofa. He’s staring at John. John wonders what it would be like to kiss Sherlock’s bow shaped lips. He wonders what would happen if he ran his hand up under Sherlock’s soft silk shirt. He wonders what Sherlock tastes like.
And I love you, yes I love you, oh how I love you.
John shakes his head – what is he thinking? He turns off the music after that, and disappears into the kitchen for a while. John doesn’t wake up to the sound of music anymore after that.
Fast forward now, two months and three days from John being awoken to Black Dog. Fast forward past all the mess that was Christian Dorian Grey. Fast forward past the surprising delightful experimentation in the sitting room. John wakes up to the sound of music. He doesn’t recognize his surroundings at first, but when he sits up with a start, he remembers – Sherlock’s room. He couldn’t have slept long, since the sun was still shining brightly through the bedroom curtains. He feels better though, more rested than before, and he flops back down onto the bed. He listens. Before, Sherlock only played classic rock, but now, it was something different. There’s a heavy snare, a driving beat that makes his head want to bob along. There’s an echo to the guitar chords and whispered vocals that John can’t quite make out from where he lay. He likes it though. It sounds soft and pretty and it makes John smile because he hasn’t quite heard anything like it. He curls on his side and buries in face in the pillow – Sherlock’s pillow. It smells like him – everything in the room smells like him, and John feels a prickling tingle spread through his limbs. The same prickling tingle that ran through his whole body while Sherlock was kissing his neck.
John’s eyes snap back open and his head shoots from the pillow and everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours rushes back to him. He’s warm now, recalling the feel of Sherlock straddling his lap, the feel of Sherlock’s hips in his hand, the feel of Sherlock as he sunk his teeth into the sensitive spot on John’s neck. John drags a finger across the spot that Sherlock spent so much time ‘analyzing’, and he shudders. He closes his eyes again and he wants to memorize everything about that moment. He wants to memorize the way Sherlock gasped as John pressed his fingers into his hips. He wants to memorize the way Sherlock curled against him and bit his ear. He wants to memorize everything about that moment.
“I’m going to pin you to the couch and kiss you for an hour. That’s the next experiment.”
John can’t help the squeak of excitement that comes from his throat. He sits up straight in bed. He can’t wait. He swings his feet over the side of the bed, fixes his jumper, and leaps towards the door. There’s a definite pep in his step – more so than any other time John has woken up. When he opens the door and slips out towards the sitting room, he’s positively thrumming with anticipation. He expects to see the detective, perched in his chair, or staring out the window, or flipping through his notebook. Instead, he finds the sitting room completely empty. How disappointing. John’s chest deflates a little as he gazes around the empty room.
“Sherlock?” He tries. Silence.
He sighs heavily, scrubbing a hand over his head. The laptop is sitting wide open on the desk, and from where he stands, John can properly listen to the music playing. He still likes it, really like it. He wonders who sings it, or where Sherlock found it. He listens.
I feel like more. Tonight, I feel like more.
He sighs again. With an empty flat, and an unsatisfactory feeling in his chest, John’s not sure what to do now. He’s wide awake, so going back to bed is out of the question. Perhaps a cuppa and bad telly? Anything to distract him from his bloody disappointment. He walks to the lap top, and his hand hovers over the ‘mute’ button for a second before he decides that he’ll listen for a while.
Sherlock’s phone. John looks over to where the mobile sitting on the arm of the chair. He frowns towards it, agitated that Sherlock left the flat – again – without it. He looks down at Baker Street from the sitting room window, half expecting – half wanting – to see Sherlock strolling down the street towards 221. He doesn’t even know what he’d do, though, once he entered their flat. What would he say?
‘So, Sherlock… are you going to pin me to the couch now and snog me senseless? Because I’d really enjoy that, thanks’. John rolls his eyes at how ridiculous that sounds. He’s not sure how long he stands there, gazing out the window and listening to the music, but when Sherlock’s phone beeps again, John turns his head towards it.
“I’d answer that, if I were you,” John hears behind him. Mycroft. He reaches over and mutes the laptop, frowning slightly towards the archway.
“Hello, Mycroft,” He pushes out, his manners getting the best of him. Mycroft invites himself in, stalking towards the arm chair with a theatricality that reminds him so much of Sherlock.
“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft nods once he’s settled into the chair, crossing his legs. He gives John a tight lipped smile that John can’t read. Surprise, surprise. He feels Mycroft’s eyes sweep him, and he steps away from the window, jamming his hands into the pockets of his trousers. Before John can say anything, however, he hears a door open down the hallway.
“Go home, Mycroft.” Sherlock.
John looks down the hallway to find the bathroom door wide open with Sherlock sitting on the tiled floor. His notebook is open on his lap, his legs propped up on the bathtub with his back pressed against the sink. John feels an indescribable rush run through his chest.
“Sherlock, are you – “ John starts. Sherlock cuts him off, as per usual.
“Yes, John. I’m sitting on the bathroom floor. The smell of cleaning products helps me to think,” Sherlock informs, flipping through a page in his notebook. He looks back up for a second, “By the way, thank you for cleaning the bathroom yesterday.”
John’s brow furrows at the oddness of thinking in the bathroom (and being thanked by Sherlock), but Mycroft projects, “Ah, yes. There’s scientific proof that the smell of cleaning agents helps the brain process information easier. Cleanliness, or the smell of it, ‘eases’ the mind. Honestly, John, you’re a doctor. It seems as though they’ll make anyone a ‘doctor’ these days.”
John feels an agitated prickle run up his spine. Sherlock rises from the bathroom floor and moves to stand at the end of the hallway, “Shut up, Mycroft.”
He looks over at John, and his eyes narrow as he analyzes him, “You only slept for two hours and four minutes. Is that sufficient, John?”
John’s cheeks flush at their own accord, and he clears his throat. He gazes down at his bare feet. Just a few minutes ago, all John could think about was snogging Sherlock – could he see that? Could he deduce that?
Mycroft lets out a huff, drawing their attention, “How’s the blog, Doctor Watson?”
Sherlock openly scoffs. John turns to him, surprised, “My blog? You read my blog, Mycroft?”
Mycroft gives him a satisfied smirk, “Of course I read your blog, John. You’ve even inspired me to start my own blog.”
Sherlock groans and flops down onto the couch, “What’s the name of your blog? Do tell us. No, wait. Let me guess – Late Night Stops at My Reproductive System?”
John sniggers. Mycroft sighs, unamused. Sherlock, clearly on a roll, continues, “’Dear Journal, today is the third day of my menstrual cycle and I’m really craving Jammie Dodgers. Does that sound about right, Mycroft?”
Mycroft’s mouth flattens into a tight line. He taps his hand on his knee before looking up at John, “I was only asking about the status of your blog because I was curious if you’d be writing about a certain Christian Dorian Grey.”
Silence. The flat is so silent and Mycroft smirks into the quiet. John feels his stomach fall and crash onto the floor. He quickly looks to Sherlock, whose face is ashen as he glares towards his brother. John wipes his now sweaty palms down the front of his trousers and stutters, “Y-you know about that?”
Mycroft rolls his eyes dramatically, “You hung a dead, male prostitute off a building in almost broad daylight. Did you really think I wouldn’t know about it?”
Sherlock’s mobile cuts through the agonizing silence like the sharpest of knives. Sherlock makes no move to answer it. John has no idea what to do. Mycroft taps his knee again, “That would be Lestrade.” He pauses. “Or that could be Miss Hooper. While performing her routine work in the morgue this afternoon, she noticed some rather questionable things regarding Mr. Christian Dorian Grey. If you would have answered your phone an hour ago, you would have been able to run over and nip her curiosity in the bud. Now, she has had no choice but to inform Lestrade.”
John feels like he’s going to faint. Blood pounds through his ears, and he can feel his heartbeat in his entire body. There’s no way – no way – they’ll get away with this. They had their ‘fun’, him and Sherlock, and now, they were fucked. Christ, they didn’t even use gloves. They didn’t use gloves because they were so sure that this would be a simple suicide. A toss away that Lestrade would roll his eyes at over his morning coffee.
Sherlock stands, straight and tall, and crosses to John. He slides a hand over John’s shoulder, smoothing his palm across his scar. He squeezes, reassurance, his long fingers dipping down past his collar bone. It brings John back, Sherlock’s touch. His heart beat slows, and he melts a little at the feel of Sherlock’s fingers against him. He edges closer to the detective, until his shoulder is ghosting against his lean chest. Sherlock takes his hand and runs it down John’s back until it rest just under his shoulder blade. John sucks in a breath, an audible gasp that piercing the quiet room as violently as the mobile.
“Is Lestrade at Bart’s yet?” Sherlock asked, but John can feel his eyes boring into him, warming him, comforting him. Mycroft stands and straightens out his expensive suit, “He hasn’t left the Yard yet, but he’ll be on his way. I can stall him, Lestrade, if you two can get to Bart’s. Shut Miss Hooper up, and I’ll make sure the paper work hits the desk without any further issues.”
Sherlock and John blink at Mycroft’s kindness. John asks, “How are you going to stall Lestrade?”
Mycroft’s mouth slides into a mysterious smile, “I have my ways.” His eyes harden though, and he jerks a finger towards the door, “Now, get to Bart’s.”
John feels Sherlock’s fingers squeeze the skin just under his shoulder blade. John looks up at him, into his piercing gaze. Sherlock moves closer, until John’s shoulder is flush against his chest. Despite the serious nature of the situation, John can’t help but notice how close they are. All John would have to do is turn, just a little, press himself against Sherlock and kiss those incredible bow shaped lips. When Sherlock speaks, John can feel the rumble of his chest, his rich baritone, vibrate through his whole body. He wants to feel it again. He wants to feel it for the rest of his life.
“Are you ready?” Sherlock asks him, his warm breath dusting his face. It reminds John of hours before, of feeling Sherlock’s lips and tongue against his neck. He swallows and nods but all he can think is kiss me, please kiss me, right here, I don’t care that Mycroft is here, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me. Sherlock takes a second, to glance over John once more, before grabbing his coat and leaving the flat. John stares after him then shakes his head. He grabs his coat. As he’s putting it on, he notices Mycroft hovering around the archway with a devious look in his eyes.
“Don’t worry, John. I’m sure there will be plenty of time for experiments later,” He says. Smarmy git. John bristles a little and pushes past Mycroft, not caring what he can deduce. As his feet hit the stairs, John turns to him. He says, “By the way, Mycroft, you look fat in those trousers.”
He descends the stairs with a satisfied smirk and joins Sherlock in the cab.
“I just told your brother that he looks fat in his trousers.”
“Well, that’s because he does. Did you see his waistline? It was practically screaming for help.”
John wishes that the cab ride to St. Bart’s was uneventful. Boring. Dull.
He should be focusing on the fact that he will probably be on his way to jail in less than an hour. Instead, all he can think about is how close Sherlock is to him. Every time the cab hits a bump, Sherlock’s knee brushes his and it sends a shock through John’s entire body. Like lightening. His hands curl into the fabric of his pants. John looks out the window, to distract himself. He jumps when he feels a hand slide across his shoulders. Sherlock.
His nimble fingers crawl around his neck and John stops breathing. Each tap tap tap of Sherlock’s fingers against his skin tingles. He looks at Sherlock from the corner of his eye, and even though his head is turned out towards the street, there is a small – almost nonexistent – smirk on his lips. John wants to kiss that smirk clean off his face. He wants to swallow that smirk.
A strangled noise slips from John when Sherlock’s finger strokes against the spot under his ear. His eyes slip shut, his fingernails cutting into his palms as he clenches his hands tighter. It’s still sensitive, the magic spot, from the bites and licks and kisses he received from Sherlock. He wants to groan as Sherlock ghosts his fingers up under his ear, but he remembers where he is. He’s in a cab. With Sherlock Holmes. And the cab driver keeps glancing in the mirror at the two of them so he obviously recognizes the two of them.
But oh my God, Sherlock – he can’t stop his head from rolling back against the seat as Sherlock scratches a line from under his ear to the nape of his neck. Sherlock pushes closer, nudging his nose through John’s hair. His hand wanders to Sherlock’s leg, grasping his thigh, wanting to touch him. Needing to touch him. He squeezes and Sherlock sucks in a breath against him, rustling his hair. John shivers. Sherlock’s hand cups the side of John’s neck, pulling him closer. He lowers his head and John gasps as he feels the gentle nip of Sherlock’s teeth against the shell of his ear.
The cab comes to a stop. Sherlock pulls away, “Ah, we’re here.”
He leaps from the cab with a dramatic ‘swish’ of his coat, leaving John slack-jawed and embarrassingly hard and rosy-cheeked. The cab driver coughs and John wants to die a little, but he shoves money towards the front of the cab and exits with an unsatisfied grumble.
He finds Sherlock in the morgue, stalking around the examination table with a tittering Molly close behind him. Christian Dorian Grey is flat on the table, blue and cold and dead dead dead. It slams John in the chest, bringing him down from his Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock cloud to the cold hard ground of reality.
“Oh hello, John,” Molly smiles to him. John manages a curt nod, his eyes shifting from Christian Dorian Grey to Sherlock and back again. She doesn’t seem to notice that he doesn’t reply. She tucks her hands behind her, “I’m sorry to call you two in, but I just noticed some strange things that didn’t settle with me right. I thought maybe you should take a look. I’ve called Lestrade in, when I couldn’t get a hold of you, but he called to say traffic is awful and he’ll be a while.”
Fucking Mycroft. John breathes a little easier. Sherlock stops circling and stares down Molly, whom blushes furiously. He asks, “What are these strange things you claim are so important?”
John huffs at Sherlock’s lack of manners. Sherlock glances over to him before he bends over Christian Dorian Grey as Molly lowers the sheet.
“I found these bruises. They don’t look right, especially if there was belief of malicious intent,” She explains.
“Because his shirt was on backwards,” Sherlock interjects.
Molly smiles a little and continues, “I knew it probably wasn’t a huge thing, but something about them doesn’t sit with me right.”
She pulls the white cotton past his chest, where she runs a gloved hand over the skin just under his rib cage. The skin is a deep purple, an angry bruise right above where his kidneys would be. John inhales.
Rewind back twelve hours and some change. John’s hands are grasped underneath Christian Dorian Grey’s shoulders as he and Sherlock struggle to carry him out of the bedroom. Sherlock has his feet and John is huffing and panting as they jostle the body around the particularly sharp corner of the sitting room. John stumbles a little, and jerks forward. Sherlock fumbles around, pushing Christian Dorian Grey away from him and into the sharp corner with a loud ‘thud’.
John winces and regains his footing, “Jesus, Sherlock, careful. I think that was his kidney.”
John lowers his head to the bruise, pretending to scrutinize the wound. Sherlock does the same, pushing close to him, his chin brushing over John’s shoulder as he analyzes the bruise. John starts to warm again – he feels the static shock run through his body now that Sherlock was so close. The want, need, itch to touch the taller man returns. He fights the urge to turn in his arms, bury his hands in Sherlock’s hair, and crush his body against him. Feel every hard line of his body against his own. Would Sherlock burn like John?
Did Sherlock tingle like John did?
Sherlock lifts his head away and circles the table again. John feels the bite of a chill, cold. Molly, oblivious to the world beyond the swooping detective, pulls the sheet down more. She exposes Christian Dorian Grey’s hip where an even uglier bruise had form. Sherlock stops his pace and stares. John closes his eyes.
Rewind back twelve hours and some more change. Sherlock slips down the stair case and drops Christian Dorian’s Grey’s feet completely. The sudden movement rips his shoulders right out from John’s grasp, and the two of them watch as Christian Dorian Grey sails down the stairs by Mrs. Hudson’s door.
Thud, thud, thud.
Christian Dorian Grey’s body slams against the bottom bannister with a sickening crack. Sherlock makes a choked noise and runs down the stairs after him, “Shit, shit, shit.”
John is breathing hard, panicking, because fuck, fuck, fuck, Mrs. Hudson is going to wake up and see this and have an absolute heart attack and then they’ll have to dispose of TWO bodies and John was going to jail and holy shit, Sherlock is fucked because he has such a pretty mouth and –
“John,” Sherlock hisses up to him once he reaches the bottom landing where Christian Dorian Grey hit. He seizes his legs and blinks up at John with wide, nervous eyes. He takes a deep breath and runs his hands through his hair before hurrying down the stairs.
“Shit, I think we just cracked his pelvis.”
Molly steps away from the table and smiles nervously at Sherlock and John. Sherlock bends over Christian Dorian Grey, and John watches apprehensively. He’s much calmer than before, Sherlock is. He stands straight, and stalks around the table to stand in front of Molly.
“Dull, dreadfully dull,” He states, bored, “Really, Molly.” He rolls his eyes.
Molly blushes a vibrant red and tucks her chin down, “What do you mean?”
“Are you not aware of this man’s profession?” Sherlock asks. Molly opens her mouth, but Sherlock waves a hand, stopping her words before they could even start, “No, don’t answer that. Obviously, you don’t.”
He sweeps a hand behind him, gesturing to Christian Dorian Grey, “This man was a prostitute. Judging by the various marks around his chest and back, he was regularly abused. Either by clients, or perhaps by his pimp. Going by small bruises along his wrist and neck, I’m going to say both.”
Molly’s brow furrows, “But the bruises look post-mortem.”
Post-mortem bruising is possible if the force is inflicted closely after death. Within the first three – five hours depending on the overall health of the person before death. These were of regular occurrence in the military. That’s why they look weird to her. She probably hasn’t seen many of these before. John’s mind was racing. His eyes tracked between the bruises. He puts a glove on quickly and reaches out to touch the raised skin under his ribcage. There is a pocket of coagulated blood underneath the skin – it almost feels like gelatin. Blood pockets form under post-mortem bruising because blood isn’t being pumped by the heart. Christ, this looks like such a murder.
Sherlock clucks his tongue and rolls his eyes again, “Must I always explain everything? Honestly. John, please.”
He looks to John, who catches the mysterious – devious – glint in the detective’s eye. Molly is flustered and sputtering and John takes the opportunity to seize moment. Auto-pilot on. “He was at the very late stages of AIDS. One of the very common side effects is horrendous bruising. The body has a low number of platelets which are essential for normal blood clotting, thus causing more severe bruises than normal. Low platelets also cause these nasty blood pockets. Blood isn’t being pumped through the veins probably, so blunt force often severs blood flow, creating pockets of coagulated blood.”
John has no idea what he just said. He’s pretty sure that it was a solid minute of purely talking out of his ass. Reciting medical textbooks.
Sherlock shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat, puffs out his chest, and beams proudly at John. John’s cheeks heat. Molly ducks her head down and knots her fingers together. She apologizes profusely as she bustles about. She waves the clip board around, “Of course. Silly me. I’ll get this filed away. I should let Detective Inspector Lestrade know that you two have the situation under control.”
John breathes a sigh of relief. Molly collects some paper work and flees the morgue, her hurried footsteps echoing down the hallway in retreat. There’s a moment, when John and Sherlock stand in silence. There’s a thrum, a beat of reprieve knowing that it was over. It was in Mycroft’s hands now, and though John wasn’t his number one fan, he could count on him to handle a scandal such as this one.
Was it really that easy?
John turns to Sherlock, to smile at him maybe, or crack a joke, but Sherlock crowds him against the wall until his back is pressed flat.
John gasps, his hands immediately rising to Sherlock’s shoulders to anchor him. Sherlock presses tight to him, his hands fumbling past John’s coat and jumper until his cool fingers slide across his sides. John’s skin feels so hot against Sherlock’s touch, and he arches back into the hands that move to rest on the small of his back. He wants his hands everywhere. He closes his eyes and rocks his head back against the wall. John releases his grip on Sherlock’s shoulders to sink his fingers into the detective’s hair. He tugs and Sherlock makes a soft noise as he rests his forehead against John’s.
Oh my God, was that a moan?
The arms around John’s waist tighten, the fingers on the small of his back digging and scratching into his skin. John licks his lips and tugs Sherlock’s hair again, desperately trying to pull him closer.
Kiss me, Sherlock. Fucking kiss me.
Sherlock moves closer, his chest so flush against John’s that he can feel the rumble of every breath he takes. His hot, hot, hot breath rushes across his face, and John is panting with the anticipation of smoothing his lips across the man pressed oh so close against him. He wets his lips in a thick, lewd lick of his tongue, aware that Sherlock is watching with a heated gaze. He pulls the curls at the base of Sherlock’s neck, and the detective’s eyes slide closed in delight as John pulls him down.
Kiss me. Please, please, please kiss me.
His lips just barely brush Sherlock’s, and he groans. There’s a crack of electricity that shoots down his spinal column, sending waves of pleasure ricocheting through John’s entire body. He grips the hair entwined around his fingers and tries to bring his lips down to his own, but Sherlock resists, keeping it to a teasing brush. John murmurs in frustration, “Please, kiss me.”
Sherlock leans down and brushes his lips over John’s again. John gasps, “Please.”
Sherlock teases him again. Sherlock. John groans, “Sherlock.”
The footsteps echoing down the hallway alerts them of Molly’s return. Sherlock pulls back to look at John, his gaze dark and hungry and once again, John is embarrassingly hard and rosy-cheeked. He’s panting hard, and when Sherlock moves away, John has no choice but to release his grasp on his hair. He steps back, his eyes still boring into John’s, even as Molly enters the morgue with Lestrade following closely behind. John doesn’t even attempt to try and compose himself. He’s hot and frustrated and so bloody horny and all he wants to do is hurl himself at Sherlock and snog the living day lights out of him. Sherlock is watching him, and he knows. He knows what he’s doing to John. The sly smirk that stretches across his lips gives Sherlock away completely.
“Have you two got this squared away yet? I’m done with this bloody suicide. This shouldn’t have even hit my desk,” Lestrade is annoyed as he walks into the morgue, waving a hand towards Christian Dorian Grey.
Molly mutters to herself and looks down, blushing profusely. John would almost want to feel sorry for her if he could think about anything other than jumping Sherlock. The detective smirks, his eyes never leaving John, and he replies coolly, “Yes. Once again, you all have bored me with a completely transparent case. It’s taken care of. Can we please let Christian Dorian Grey rest in peace now?”
Lestrade scratches his hand through his hair, “Right. Agreed.” He turns to Sherlock, “Got a case that just rolled in. Double homicide, two sisters, missing husband and possible lover.”
Sherlock diverts his gaze to Lestrade, “Guaranteed it’s the jealous husband.” His eyes narrow as they slide to John, and there’s that damn mischievous glint in his eyes again. “But there’s not enough data to conclude properly. Lead the way.”
As Lestrade and Molly and Sherlock make their way out of the morgue, John’s hand shoots out and grabs the arm of Sherlock’s coat and stops him in his tracks, “That’s it?”
Sherlock looks at him expectantly, “That’s what?”
Now he’s hot and frustrated and angry because he understands now that Sherlock has been teasing him. Fucking Sherlock. John bristles, “You know what I’m talking about. You can’t just –“
Sherlock interjects, “I can’t what, John?” He moves closer to John, fingers closing around the hand on his arm tightly. He draws his full bottom lip suggestively between his teeth, knowing full well that John was watching his every move with bated breath. He repeats, “Can’t what?”
“All I want is for you to pin me to the couch and snog me senseless, and you know that, and you have been teasing me ever since we left our flat!” When John finishes, he realizes that in his frustration, his voice was projecting across the entire morgue. Molly and Lestrade stand frozen in shock just past the door, staring dumbly at him. Sherlock’s eyes widen briefly in surprise, in disbelief that modest John Watson would ever say anything like that. It hits John, what he just said. What he just broadcasted across the entire morgue.
But then it hits him that he doesn’t care. Because he’s hot and frustrated and angry and so bloody horny. And Sherlock is smirking at him, AMUSED, now that his shock is gone. And John wants to cover that mouth and kiss that fucking bloody beautiful maddening smirk right off his lips. And John doesn’t care if Molly and Lestrade and the BLOODY FUCKING DAILY NEWS knew about it. And SHERLOCK is SMIRKING at him because it’s all just PART OF THE BLOODY EXPERIMENT.
John huffs and pushes himself away from the wall, moving with determination in his stride. He storms past Lestrade and Molly, who hastily move out of his way.
“John, where are you goi-“ Sherlock starts.
“I’M BLOODY GOING HOME!” John shouts back, echoing angrily down the hallway.
Stomp, stomp, stomp.
“Stupid, bloody Sherlock Holmes with his stupid bloody experiments and his stupid bloody lips and his stupid bloody cheekbones and his stupid bloody swishy coat and stupid bloody perfect fucking face and – TAXI!”
“Sherlock,” says Lestrade, almost a question. Definitely measured. “I’m not sure what I just witnessed.”
Sherlock glares, “Telling the man who solves all your cases about your lack of observational skills is annoyingly redundant and completely unnecessary.”
John’s anger starts to simmer once he flops himself down on the sofa in the 221B sitting room. (That is however after John stomped to the taxi, shouted at the taxi driver, slammed the taxi door shut, and stomped up the stairs of 221).
He feels silly. It’s all just an experiment – a silly little experiment, just like all the other ones Sherlock conducts.
But John’s feelings were very real. His frustration was very real. His want, need was very real. These images of Sherlock in his head were very very real, and the more John thought about it, the more it drove him mad. All of this (all the teasing in the morgue, in the cab, on the couch) was part of an experiment. Information that Sherlock would scribble down in a notebook then store away. John’s feelings were data. John’s chest hurt.
Data. Sherlock would come home and observe him and take notes because John’s reaction was exactly what he was looking for under his (X + Y + TEASE = ? ) equation. He would take a hair sample then bend over the table the rest of the night, over his microscope, analyzing his data.
John frowns and leans his head back on the sofa. He feels embarrassed. How embarrassing for him – getting emotionally involved in one of Sherlock Holmes’ experiments.
Of course he was data.
Of. Fucking. Course.
John scrubs at his eyes and he’s so mad. Not at Sherlock, but at himself because John should have known better. This was all too much – these past twenty four hours being terribly unkind of to John Watson. He should sleep – 48 hours at least – and maybe it would all be better. Maybe he was just sensitive from the lack of sleep. Sensitive? Bloody woman.
He runs his hands over his mouth and closes his eyes. This is ridiculous, he decides. This whole situation is just bloody ridiculous.
He’s not sure how long he sits there, with his head back and his eyes closed. It’s quiet and peaceful and the silence is like Heaven to his mess of a mind. He thinks he hears the soft flutter of fabric, and he opens his eyes to find Sherlock before him. John’s surprised, but not in the way he thinks he should be. Sherlock stands guarded in front of him, hesitant and wary, with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looks at John with apprehension and John is just so sure that Sherlock will tell him how immature he is and how average he is and how he’s nothing more than an ordinary male thinking with his prick.
John lifts his head, and leans forward. He presses his elbows into his knees and sighs, long and tiresome and unfulfilled sounding, “I’m not your experiment, Sherlock.”
His words surprise him. He didn’t mean to blurt what he was feeling. Right?
Sherlock’s brow furrows, confused. He says, “I know you’re not.”
John’s not sure what his face does – maybe it relaxes, maybe his eyes brighten, maybe his lips twitch into a smile – but Sherlock’s face hardens. He stiffly takes off his jacket, his mouth flattened into a hard line, “I seem to have made a tactical error.”
John blinks, “Excuse me?”
Sherlock breathes hard and drops his head – he’s angry, his mind and thoughts racing faster than he can process. He sputters, rethinking, rephrasing, “John-I- I never… making you feel like an experiment was never my intention…”
He stops and squeezes his fist together at his sides. He takes a moment – one, two, three – and walks towards the laptop. He fiddles around on the desk, ejecting the disc in the laptop and placing it inside a case. Sherlock holds the case in his hand, staring hard at it as he turns back to John.
“There was a study done, a few years back, at Cornell University which concluded that if a song is heard upon waking, it has an 83% chance of being ‘stuck in your head’ the rest of the day,” He pauses. He rubs his thumb across the front of the case. He starts, “I thought it was such a clever thing to do – fill a disc full of songs that might portray my feelings and then play them in the morning as a romantically obtuse alarm clock. I knew you had an affinity for classic rock, and that weird 90’s music.”
John is too busy listening with rapt attention to notice that Sherlock has been holding the disc out to him for quite some time. He stares dumbly for a moment, then reaches out a hand to take it from him. Sherlock drops his hand back down, then snaps it up to run a hand through his hair. Nervous. Sherlock is nervous. He mutters, “It didn’t work, obviously. So, I went about looking for different approaches which involved a lot asking questions which then led to…”
He trails off, and looks towards his notebook on the coffee table, but John gets it. ‘Which then led to Christian Dorian Grey’. John looks down to the disc in his hands. The music – the Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Stones, Tori Amos, Moody Blues, Elton John – it all meant something so much more than John could have thought. So, this wasn’t an experiment. This was just Sherlock’s eccentric way of telling John how he feels.
John blinks – this isn’t real life, is it?
Fast forward just a few minutes. John stops buzzing, and Sherlock cries a little, but that’s okay because now he’s staring down at John with this almost carnal gaze and John is really loving every second of it. John reaches a hand up and slides his palm across the smooth skin of Sherlock’s cheek, running his hand back until it threads through the hair at the nape of his neck. He smiles, and Sherlock’s eyes soften –adoringly – and lowers himself onto John until their chests are flush. There’s no tease this time – Sherlock’s hands cradle John’s head and he kisses him so lovingly that John wants to cry.
It’s so intimate, the gentle slide of Sherlock’s soft lips against his own – slow, unhurried. It’s almost like the movies, the way Sherlock swept him right off his feet. Just one kiss and John is melting into the cushions, melting into Sherlock. He runs his free hand up Sherlock’s side before wrapping around it around his back – he wants him closer - he’s melting. Tiny, tiny firecrackers of pleasure are sparking everywhere in John’s body, starting from his toes and working all the way up to where Sherlock’s hands are buried in his hair. His whole body is warm, on fire, and when Sherlock’s fingers tug at John’s hair, he groans softly into Sherlock’s mouth.
It seems like they lay there for hours, gliding their lips together in a tender kiss that’s perfect. Oh, it’s so perfect that John never wants it to end and all he can think is this is happening, oh my God, this is happening and this is magnificent, actually incredible, really just tops. But Sherlock shifts and his hips rub against John’s just right, just enough for a bolt of desire to shoot through him. He gasps and groans and tugs at Sherlock’s hair.
Sherlock pulls away, sitting back on his feet. John lets out a shameless whine at the loss of warmth, the loss of Sherlock. He reaches out, fingers twisting for the brunette, searching for anything to grasp on to, something to pull him back and kiss him more. He licks his lips eagerly, and his fingers wind through Sherlock’s belt loops. He tugs, the pull making Sherlock shift his hips, and there – that was the spot. When he raises his hips now, there is an insatiable twinge, rub, of pleasure that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight.
There’s a gasp that comes from Sherlock, a gasp that John is quickly becoming addicted to hearing. He shifts and moans and there’s the gasp again, choked and so very sexual. Sherlock seizes John’s hands and pulls them away from his belt loops. He threads their fingers together, and for a moment, John is touched by the tender intimacy that Sherlock has shown him. But just when he settles, Sherlock lifts John’s hands and pins them straight above his head. He covers John’s body with his own in seconds, flush and possessive and his fingers squeeze John’s in the grasp held above his head. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Oh. John likes this much better.
The primal, carnal, animalistic gleam is back in Sherlock’s eyes. He looms over John, like a lion to his prey, and claims his mouth in a scorching kiss that takes John’s breath away almost instantly. With the utmost of pleasures, John relinquishes what little control he has of the kiss and lets Sherlock guide with the hot, feverish presses of his mouth. John doesn’t mind at all, because Sherlock is kissing him like a man of thirst drinks water, and he can’t get enough of it. He feels a little vulnerable with his hands above his head, but it’s Sherlock. He trusts Sherlock… and there’s something about the trust he possesses for the detective that makes it’s that much better. Hotter.
Sherlock runs his tongue along John’s bottom lip before sinking his teeth into it, and John arches off the couch with a whimper that he should be ashamed off. He tugs and pulls and John writhes against Sherlock until he releases his lip. Sherlock pulls back, an almost coy smirk on his face, and he growls, “Is this alright?”
His voice sounds so sinful. He could make Catholics kiss their crosses and do countless Hail Mary’s with a rasp like that. He releases John’s hands and runs his arms underneath his shoulders, lifting him until John is crushed tight against him. John’s hands immediately grab for Sherlock, twisting his shirt in his hands as he bows in Sherlock’s arms. He captures John’s lip in his teeth again, and bites, harder this time.
“Yes,” John gasps. “Sherlock.”
Sherlock gives a hum of satisfaction and his lips are on John’s again, and he’s drowning. Absolutely drowning and Sherlock is his buoy, his lifejacket, his everything.
They actually do lay there for hours this time – or an hour at least. When Sherlock pulls away and sits back on his haunches again, John’s jaw is sore and his lips are numb and his hips ache from being spread open in front of Sherlock. It’s okay, because Sherlock in front of him is worth it. He looks tousled and well snogged and he’s gasping between his beautifully swollen lips and John just wants to kiss him all over again. For another hour.
John props himself up on his elbows, and Sherlock smiles at him and presses a kiss to his lips that’s final and tender. He reaches for his notebook, and his smile slips to an apologetic one before he focuses on the notes he begins writing. John’s not disappointed. He feels so very content and he sits in comfortable silence, watching Sherlock as he scribbles. He stays like that for a while, his eyes drifting around Sherlock, from detail to detail. There is one curl jutting out wildly, straight out from his forehead. John chuckles warmly and reaches out, running his fingers over it gently.
Sherlock stops writing and leans into John’s touch. There’s a smile on his lips and his bright eyes shine in a way John hasn’t seen before.
“So, all this data… from your experiment? What have you concluded?” John asked, rolling Sherlock’s soft curls between his fingers. Sherlock bows his head, giving John easier access, and all but purrs against John’s hands. His heart aches a little at the sweetness of Sherlock’s demeanor. Sherlock lifts his notebook again, flipping to the last page. John watches his eyes skim over the words he’s written, and thinking that the subject has been dropped, he settles back into his spot on the couch.
“We were made for each other, did you know that?” Sherlock starts. He doesn’t look up from his notebook. He states it so obviously that John blinks in surprise. “I’ve had time for a lot of thinking, staring at a blank expanse of the wall and mulling over all the misfortunes and glaring stupidities, and the one logical conclusion that I was able to draw was that you and I belong together.”
His hand reaches out for John’s and squeezes his fingers affectionately. John is sure he’s so very starry-eyed staring the detective, but how is he supposed to help that? Sherlock gives him a soft, tight lipped smile, and flips another page. His fingers rub the skin on the back of John’s hand, and he whispers, “Something made the both of us with the intention that we should find one another. I’m the dark to your light and you’re everything I’m not, but it’s okay because that’s how it was meant to be. All that matters is you and you’ve always got this lovely light coming from your skin and sometimes I can feel it in my chest. It swells inside me and light fills up my lungs with each breath I take that smells like you. Always you. Don’t you see, John? You’re my everything.”
John wants to cry at the sincerity of his words – he sounds so sure of it. How had John not seen any of it before?. It was so obvious now that John actually looks at it. It was so obvious how mad they were about each other. John’s waited his entire life, searching in and out for this and all this time, it’s been sitting right in front of him. Literally.
Sherlock looks up for a moment, long enough to receive the firm kiss John presses to his lips. He makes a small, satisfied noise in the back of his throat and coasts a hand across John’s cheek before turning back to his notebook. What a Sherlock thing to do – pour his heart out between paragraphs of analysis. John is beaming (truly, like someone’s mum) and wanders out to the kitchen to make tea. He smiles stupidly around the entire kitchen, his skin itching with the urge to jump and maybe dance around the kitchen table. Instead, he leans against the sink and looks at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye until his tea is ready.
Tea cup in hand, John moves back to the couch, to snag the forgotten CD that sits on the coffee table. He’s sure Sherlock is watching him, he can’t hear the scratch scratch scratch of pen against paper. He walks over to the laptop and loads the CD and scrolls through the songs until he hears the one he loved so much from earlier today.
He stands there, listening, and God damn – John Watson was one content human being. All seemed right and well and usual, with John drinking his cuppa and Sherlock with his experiments except they just snogged the living daylights out of each other on the couch and John can’t help but think that it just made it better. It was all better.
You move like I want to, to see like your eyes do.
He sits back down on the couch and takes of sip of his tea and notices Sherlock smirking down at the pages on his lap.
“What?” John asks. “I like this song, who sings it?”
Sherlock’s smirk widens into a full smile, “Deftones. The song is called ‘Digital Bath’.”
John nods. “’Digital Bath’,” He tests, then nods again, “Well, I really enjoy it.”
Sherlock is grinning down into his notebook and John’s had enough of that. He kicks his feet up into Sherlock’s lap, and the detective chuckles and rests his hands on John’s ankles. His fingers rub smooth circles on John’s skin and it feels nice. He lifts a foot to tap Sherlock in the chest, “Go on. What are you giggling about?”
Sherlock lifts his chin up and listens for a moment, “This song is about electrocuting a girl in a bathtub.”
John blinks, “I beg your pardon?”
“Yes. It’s quite obvious actually. To the simple mind though, the lyrics are quite romantic,” Sherlock nods. Obviously, John.
John rolls his eyes good-naturedly and sips his tea, “So much for the romantic ‘grand gesture’, eh?”
Sherlock chuckles again, a deep rumble that melts John’s hard edges, and rubs the tops of John’s feet, “I knew you’d appreciate a ‘grand gesture’. No where did it say that it had to romantic.”
John dissolves into laughter, and leans forward to cup Sherlock’s face. He places a few wet kisses along his cheeks, each bubble of mirth being broken with every press and pucker of his lips. He places one final kiss on Sherlock’s lips before leaning back onto the couch and returning to his tea. Sherlock shakes his head, and returns to his notes, and John sits in silence, but that’s okay because in five minutes John will want to kiss Sherlock again. And he can now. He can touch Sherlock whenever he pleases, and run his hands through his hair, and kiss his face, and curl up next to him, and John likes it so much better.
It was all just… better.