Pulse of the Thumb
By BlueJayJazz
Eyes fixed, as it always was and as it always should be.
They could convey entire conversations in those sharp gazes they fixated each other with, unspoken words tumbling through the air via that connection of understanding and friendship.
And John loved Sherlock's eyes, he really did. Soft and so bright and luminous, that sunshine-though-misty-foggy-air feel that reflected in them, gleaming and grey.
But they weren't John's favorite thing about the Consulting Deductive, though he would tell himself he loved everything about Sherlock, there was one particular physical aspect that always enraptured him.
"John- are you even listening to me?"
John smiled at Sherlock, somewhat sheepishly. "Of course."
Sherlock glared at his friend, and continued. "Anyway, regardless of blood on the lips- there is no internal damage. It appears she simply bit her lip, while indeed there are no actual wounds or even any bruising on the body-"
The 'body', as Sherlock so bluntly put it, was a young woman about the age of twenty-five. She lay perpendicular to her large bed, near the far wall of her pricey hotel room.
She was a pretty lady, slim, blonde, but not really John's type even if he were into dead girls. No, even if she were alive and throwing herself at him, John would have nothing to give.
John had given his heart to a far taller, leaner, dark haired specimen with good teeth and minty breath. To put a name to a face, Sherlock Holmes.
The doctor had to put off his musings a moment when he resurfaced to reality, the sounds of Sherlock and Anderson's arguments reaching his ears.
John watched Sherlock spit a retort back to the half-witted antagonist, teeth bared in that incredibly sexy growl-face of his.
The doctor tried to pay attention to what they were talking about, wondering vaguely if he should step in before things got messy.
"You don't even act like a human! The fuck sort of person are you?"
"I really am unconcerned about whether you deem me human enough, Anderson."
"Is all the world just a stupid little game to you? Huh? You freak."
"I'd appreciate you keep your thoughts to yourself." Sherlock snapped, a brief fizzle of anger cracking behind his words before he composed himself. John knew it was the word that set him off. Every time, that word. 'Freak'.
Scotland Yard's police fidgeted nervously as Sherlock turned back to the dead woman lying haphazardly on the floor.
He gently lifted her pale wrist, ghosting his delicate and trained fingers over the exposed skin of her arm.
Sherlock then moved to her face, closely checking her eyes before standing up with an air of completion.
"Now, I've determined from the pricks on the crook of her elbow it was most definitely an overdose. The way he arm is stretched out and her hand extended towards the bed, you'll find the killer laying underneath." Sherlock gestured to the nearby bed. "Go ahead Anderson, take a look."
Anderson glanced skittishly over to Lestrade before cautiously bending over and reaching under the bed, as though he were afraid Sherlock was leading him into some trap.
He pulled back his unharmed hand, holding a small used syringe.
Sherlock plucked the tool from Anderson and peered at it, sniffing the sharp point. "My best bet is its morphine." He grimaced slightly, passing it over to Lestrade. "Just in case, run a scan."
"Oh, I'm sure your drug expertise is enough." Anderson growled lowly, but his eyes were averted as though he knew full well he was going too far.
John turned to hurl a sharp retort at the rat-faced man, but Sherlock looked at his friend with that glance that whispered softly Just leave it be.
John was surprised, that Sherlock would let such a remark pass by. But when he shifted his gaze from the Detective's eyes to what he loved the most about Sherlock, he knew the truth.
His hands. His pale, long and nimble, musician hands. His delicate and artistic, gentle yet firm hands.
They were clenched at his sides, trembling slightly. Like he was struggling not to slug Anderson right in the face.
John could read everything about Sherlock in his hands. He always could. Whether it be his life or his emotions, it was all there.
The crescent moon scars on his palms from digging his nails into his flesh while he slept and when he was anxious. The splotches and blotches discoloring his skin from chemical burns during experiments. The calluses on his thumb and forefinger from writing late into the night. The slightly pinkish knuckles from tapping them on the table over and over again in thought. The long thin fingers, fingers of a talented musician, of a delicate man who worked with such precision in all his did.
The softness, when John held them tightly in his own hands, the slight pressure of when Sherlock returned the squeeze halfheartedly, weary from thinking too much.
John and Sherlock left the crime scene a few minutes later, hand in hand still, eyes connected.
Lips connected next, after they walked around the corner out of sight, the familiar pressure of Sherlock's tender, cold lips…. Then chests, as they moved closer in an embrace. Then hips, as John maneuvered Sherlock's leg around him.
They stood there, leaning against the building wall, in such a deep embrace, kissing so passionately, they couldn't possibly have noticed the Yard Police turning the corner.
They broke apart after Donovan uttered a startled gasp. John felt heat rise to his cheeks and his heart yammer in his chest like an elephant trying to escape.
Lestrade stared at them with embarrassment and shock, while Donovan bit her lip to stifle laughter. But nothing but disgust was written on Anderson's pinched face.
"So it's the freak and his fuck toy, how appropriate. Or is it the other way around Sherly? Do you go down like a girl for him instead?" He sneered, his co-workers shooting him looks of surprise.
"Anderson." Lestrade snapped, but Anderson ignored him. He'd been put down by that blasted Consulting Detective far too long to let this go now.
That was the day Anderson snapped, it was probably because he finally had enough to hit Sherlock with.
"You waltz around day long, spitting on all us every fucking day." Anderson growled, stepping towards them. "And look at this, it looks like he even got a fucking boyfriend. Our perfect little Sherlock Holmes, genius, handsome, has a wealthy brother, has the love of his life, and you just adore rubbing it in our faces, don't you."
"You shut up, you fucking-"
"Oh no, it's my turn now, you dirty twat." Anderson snapped, "I'm not finished with our lovely conversation back in the hotel. You. Aren't. Human. And you're certainly not perfect."
"Anderson, that's enough-" Lestrade started forward, but Anderson brushed him off.
"I've seen you're records, Holmes. I've seen you're profiles and papers. I know you're a fucking filthy mess. You don't deserve to act so high and mighty- you're not a god. You're a freak. A freak. What with you're drugs, cocaine, morphine, the works. You don't sleep, you don't eat, you attempted suicide in university. You were bullied to the point of homeschooling in elementary and highschool. You used to be an anorexic, you-"
"That's enough!"
No one was sure who said it, they all opened their mouths at the same time. In fact, they probably all said it at once; John, Lestrade, Donovan…
But not Sherlock. No, Sherlock just stood there. Staring at him, no emotion but quiet contemplation, studying the red-faced angry man before him.
Lestrade grabbed Anderson and punched him in the face, eyes bright with fury. He knelt down to stare face to face with his co-worker. "He may piss us off sometimes. He may be insufferable. But no one, and I say NO ONE talks to Sherlock like that. Ever."
John left Anderson to the two police, forcing down his anger. Bubbling, burning, eating a hole in his stomach like acid trying force it's way up his throat.
Sherlock's fingers ghosted over his, and their hands clasped together as they met each others gaze.
John's lover smiled, a hesitant, uncertain smile, as if he weren't sure it safe to do so. But it was such a precious thing…
John just wanted to capture it with his mouth.
"Lestrade will deal with Anderson." He finally whispered as they walked together down the street, hand in hand. "He won't get away with it this time."
"I don't care if he does or doesn't." Sherlock muttered. "He's to insignificant to pay much heed to."
John flicked Sherlock a surprised look, but knew he was just protected himself in the only way he knew how.
"It's alright to be affected by things, you know."
They fell into a comfortable silence after that, neither having much left to say.
Their hands did the rest of the talking.