For a Prompt from Seven-lbs: Sherlock realizes John always stares at heavier men, so he starts trying to put on weight, hoping John will find him more attractive? Except John's oblivious at first… he notices Sherlock eating but doesn't really notice the weight until other friends (Scotland Yard folks?) point it out. Once he notices he can't stop staring, and encouraging, and I bet you know the rest!
Sherlock was frustrated. As far as he could tell, despite the man's constant proclamations of "Not gay!", there was plenty of data to support alternate theories as to John's sexuality. He'd even succeeded in getting John drunk and wheedled a couple of confessions out of him. He'd called Harry who was surprisingly amiable to sharing. So the data was clear. John had taken interest in both male and female partners. Several times. But then, why never Sherlock? He'd admitted his admiration often enough, always praising his prowess at cases (Which was admittedly awe-inspiring), but never anything... more. He must be missing something. He had to be. Wasn't it said that familiarity bred admiration? That was how he'd fallen for John after all, but the response had not been identical. He needed more concrete data, maybe to formulate an experiment rather than a simple observational study.
The detective spent the evening on five different dating sites collecting subjects. He took John to a bar on the premise of a case. Some hogwash about a barman with an inclination for serving sparkling cyanide. John bought it without question. The subjects were set up to arrive thirty minutes apart and chat John up. Sherlock would be recording his flatmate's responses in a mental spreadsheet.
"So, we're just laying low?" John asked, nursing his beer, "For how long? I'm not going to be much use to you if this goes on too long."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and sipped at his own water. "You could have opted for a soda or water. As I have done."
"Sherlock, no one walks up to a bar and asks for a glass of water," John snorted, shaking his head.
"I did," replied Sherlock pointedly.
"Yeah, well. You're you."
For some odd reason, that seemed to make the detective's heart swell. He looked over at John, his eyes still wandering, gathering data. He'd borrowed some of Sherlock's shampoo again, clearly. John, as ever, didn't notice. He was looking around the bar at the other patrons. His gaze paused now and again, but it didn't linger anywhere. None his type? This was growing increasingly irksome.
The hour struck 10. which meant that Deliah Masters was late. Sherlock scowled into his drink, though John seemed to be enjoying himself well enough thanks to alcohol and ignorance. Then a quarter after, Sherlock spotted a petite young black woman entering the room, watching her reflection in a mirror behind the bar. She was set to meet a short blonde man in a blue shirt fifteen minutes ago. Still, she was a pretty thing, even Sherlock could admit that. Her curly dark hair was done up in a colorful scarf That showed of an elegant neck and her clean jawline.
The detective watched as Deliah saw John and came over. Her smile was bright and her voice thick with an Estuary accent.
"Hullo. Sorry, but are you Alistair by chance," she asked.
John chuckled, "No, I'm afraid I don't know anyone by that name. Least not since the 1800s." He smiled and Deliah laughed. Sherlock turned subtly to get a better view.
"Pity, I was hoping you was him. You fit the description all right," she continued still smiling warmly. Yes, there was no doubting her interest, but John's? No... That was just his polite smile. Somehow, although it ruined his chances for data, Sherlock couldn't help but feel relieved.
"Oh yeah? Maybe he's my long lost twin. Sounds like a handsome bloke any way," John said, taking another swig of his drink, "I'll direct him to you if I see him."
"Thanks," said Deliah. She chewed her lip then ventured to ask, "So, are you waiting for someone?"
"I am yeah. Sorry," said John kindly, "Enjoy your evening though, yeah?"
"Yeah, you two," she replied, then went to buy a drink at the other end of the bar. Just in time too. The next date was slated to meet in just five minutes. Sherlock swallowed a growl when the clock ticked steadily past the allotted time. Honestly, was punctuality dead? He got up to use the loo. Damn all that water.
When he returned, John was speaking with a tall blonde woman in a tight black dress. She was smiling, and John was clearly the cause, however, she soon walked away to buy a drink as well. Sherlock was astonished. A tall, busty blonde. Wasn't that supposed to be the pinnacle of male fantasy? He glowered and went to rejoin John.
"Alright?" The doctor asked, taking in Sherlock's mood.
"Yes," said Sherlock moodily as he took another drink.
"You should have some peanuts with that, so you don't piss your salt balance away."
"Salt balance. I know about these things because 'm a doctor," John explained. He pushed the plate towards Sherlock and had another swig of his beer.
"Maybe you ought to switch to water as well," said Sherlock pointedly, "before you make an idiot of yourself. Or well a bigger idiot anyway."
"Ha, you're funny," replied John with just a hint of sarcasm. Sherlock sighed.
"What about that blonde then, the one you were just speaking to?"
"Oh, she was looking for a Rutherford. I swear the people who go to these bars must have the cruelest parents," said John, getting perilously close to a giggle fit.
"Rutherford isn't that odd of a name," said Sherlock haughtily. Though he had the impression that his ears were going pink. He cleared his throat and waited for the next subject to arrive. But John didn't take to any of them. He barely batted an eye when a blonde blue-eyed muscly young man sat next to him and started chatting him up. John was polite, but clearly not interested. That only doubled Sherlock's frustration. He wanted to kick something. Not redheads, not blondes, not dark hair, not tall, not short, not... Anything!
Sherlock was sulking so much that his water almost began tasting bitter.
"That bar man is taking his time isn't he?" John murmured a short while later, finally having the sense to switch to water as well. "Are you sure it's him? He looks a nice sort of bloke."
Sherlock huffed. "Yes, I am sure. And you're only warm with him because he hasn't cut you off yet."
"No, you did that. Thought you were supposed to be my friend," said John, sitting back with a sigh and rubbing his eyes. It was getting late and his buzz was winding down. Now he just felt heavy and sleepy. He was just gazing past Sherlock, his eyes wandering. until-
Sherlock noted a sudden altered change in John's posture. Perhaps he was finally going to get some data. He gathered himself up to focus, but all he saw was two rather large young men, one with just the beginnings of a pot belly pushing out against his t-shirt, jiggling slightly with his footfalls, the other man was... quite a lot larger. Sherlock looked to John in confusion but the doctor was too busy staring. Oh. He'd miscalculated. Or perhaps John was too drunk to mind his eyes, they were certainly attractive, if unfit. John seemed to suddenly realize he was staring and snapped his attention back to Sherlock.
"Er, sorry. Look, can we just go home? I don't think he's going to kill anyone tonight," John pleaded, looking the bad side of drunk and quite exhausted.
Sherlock simply nodded and stood, then led his flatmate out to catch a cab home. His mind was still spinning. How could he have missed this vital clue? For so long? Sarah and all the others had been leaner, much leaner... This required further testing. It might be just a fluke brought on by tiredness, alcohol...
It wasn't. The pattern proved itself again and again over the next week. Now that he was attuned to it, it was impossible to ignore how John's eyes would linger whenever a heavier man passed, how they would trace over the curve of his belly, fix at his waistband. Always there was a swallow, a twitch of the fingers as if yearning to touch. Interesting. Finally, data collected and tabulated before being filed away in his mind palace along with all the other things he knew about John, Sherlock knew what he had to do.
"Morning, John."
"Morning. Oh. You... made breakfast?"
"Mm," replied Sherlock, sliding a plate of eggs and bacon to John. It was half the size of his own portion, John hardly seemed to notice. He just smiled and looked pleased that Sherlock was eating something for once.
"Hungry were you?"
"Starving. I needed a big full breakfast."
"Good on you," said John, patting him on the shoulder and then going to find his laptop. Sherlock turned back to his plate, muffled a burp, then plowed on through until he was certain his body weight was almost 50% composed entirely of eggs. He wasn't used to eating this volume and so he spent a lot of his day, laying about with a tummy ache, rubbing the bulge that wasn't growing fast enough. John took pity on him and offered him a soda now and again, but never the response Sherlock was angling for. So he kept eating. And eating, and gorging, and glutting until it seemed like he only ever ate and slept on repeat. It was mind numbing but... oddly pleasing. He found he quite liked how constricting his clothing felt, how relieved he felt as he at last unbuttoned his trousers and let it round out. The skin was so very sensitive when stretched in such a way. It was a marvelous distraction. He found himself craving nicotine far less. His craving for chocolate hobnobs had grown near insatiable however.
And John? John was the most obtuse unobservant idiot in the universe. It was lucky Sherlock was in love with him. Still how he continued to miss everything was rather astonishing. The freezer stuffed full of ice cream and emptied swiftly, the constant smell of baking cake, the crunch of crisps as Sherlock laid about watching telly, not even when Sherlock would pass in clearly new clothes, munching on a slice of toast that had to be slathered in almost a half stick of butter. Even this almost sinful indulgence was unnoticed. Sherlock was almost ready to throw a tantrum. He wasn't one for giving up. And now that he had gotten started, he wasn't about to stop. It was intriguing, all this growing and eating. He began to appreciate the flavors and intricacies that came with cooking and baking from scratch. He felt himself flush every time he struggled to get his trousers up, wondering how long until a new pair would be needed to house his burgeoning belly. And off course, noting where his body was beginning to fill out and store the results of his indulgences was a worthy case all on its own. His hips especially seemed to flourish, every new pinch of flab must be cataloged. Shame that John was ordinary and blind, but so very... John.
Therefore, it took until the pair of them had been called to a crime scene for anyone to comment on Sherlock's changing figure. And many were happy to. All the officers stared. Donovan looked like Christmas had come early and Anderson had a superior smirk plastered on his face. They wasted no time in commenting on Sherlock's altered physique, not bothering to keep their voices down. John was about to ask them what the hell they were on about, he had that steely captain's glint in his eye and that dangerous smile that usually meant someone was about to be torn a new one. Sherlock didn't pay them any mind. The dead body was far more interesting.
"Oi! You talking about Sherlock?" John demanded, crossing his arms and stalking up to the two of them. Anderson dropped his gaze, but Donovan folded her arms, smiling uncertainly.
"Come of it, John. Just... look at him," she said.
"What? Sherlock? The man's a railing! And even if he weren't," said John, taking a step closer, "I'd be a touch politer if I were you."
"Not wise to threaten a police officer, Watson."
"Not wise to make fun of someone who your boss has taken under his wing," John retorted. He spun around as Anderson sniggered.
"What?"
"A railing? I don't think so. I think he's been growing a bit of a balcony," Anderson replied, doing his best to keep a straight face. Donovan muffled a cackle. John turned around, about to go talk to Greg about some hallucinating officers under his command, when he saw. His jaw actually dropped because Sherlock was... bigger. He suddenly went quite red in the face and went to talk to Lestrade, but all the man said was "Sherlock's looking well isn't he?" Which didn't help matters for the doctor.
Sherlock noted the flush in his flatmate's cheeks when he returned and cast an eye around, wondering if there was an officer who'd imbibed a few too many doughnuts around. That seemed the most likely solution. He then lazily told Gavin the solution that had been so very obvious and turned to John.
"Dinner?" he asked, feeling hungry already. He'd missed his usual dinner hour to visit the scene. Now he could really do with a good Pad Thai... or two. Maybe even three if he was feeling up to it. He rubbed his belly idly and didn't even notice that John's acceptance came as an odd stutter. John insisted on getting their meals to go and bought Sherlock an extra portion of chocolate mango mousse. Which was quite nice.
The result was that just a little over an hour later, Sherlock was collapsed back against the sofa, feeling so very full and fat and heavy. He groaned and put a trembling hand on his middle, rubbing the rounded mass. Then he huffed and undid his trouser button. He let out a soft exhalation, his head tipping back. Then he belched loudly. It was followed by a chuckle that wasn't his own.
"Overdid it, eh?" asked John, coming over and sitting down beside him.
"Hrrmph, hardly," Sherlock replied, patting his belly. It let out a dull thud of a smack. "My capacity's been increasing. Along with my appetite. And... various other-"
"You mean you're getting fat," finished John gruffly.
Sherlock flushed. "I... yes. To put it crudely," he rumbled, sighing as he rubbed along the side of his gut. "Think I ought to cut back, doctor?"
The question was met with silence.
"Or should I... keep eating?"
That question drew out a sharp breath. Sherlock smirked.
"Finally," he drawled, "The Great Mystery of John Watson's Taste in Men: Solved."
"I-It was a mystery?" John repeated, clearly distracted. Sherlock opened an eye and smirked even more. Very distracted.
"I'll admit, I've been less observant than I like to think possible of myself, but it did prove an interesting experiment," Sherlock continued.
John drew a little nearer. "You were... experimenting on me? Figuring out if I liked blokes?"
"John, please, that much was obvious from the day we met. I was trying to pinpoint your preferences. An experiment seemed the best method to gather unbiased data," replied Sherlock, his tone oddly low and breathy as he continued to massage and squeeze at his new gut.
"Hadn't thought of just asking me?" said John, with a bit of a grin. His eyes were most certainly following the progress of Sherlock's hand though. Ah, and there was that twitch of the fingers. Excellent progress.
"How could one possibly find a comfortable way to question a romantic interest about taboo kinks or fetishes?"
"Er... fair point. Hang on. 'Romantic interest'?" said John, looking up at Sherlock in surprise. "You mean.. you were trying to figure out what I liked so that you could, I dunno-"
"Make myself an attractive suitor. Yes. Though, I admit, I'm rather glad this is the kink you call yours," purred Sherlock, giving his belly a jiggle. John gave an odd little yelping noise. "Anyway, this experiment has proven itself endlessly more fun."
"God, yeah," murmured John, moving closer still. At long last he reached out and laid a hand on Sherlock's belly, stroked it softly. The detective hummed encouragingly, happy to have finally caught his flatmate's eye.
"Shame I never considered eating interesting before, this might have happened sooner," murmured the detective, leaning into John's affections.
"I'm sure it would have happened anyway, Sherlock," John replied, looking up from the detective's belly to meet his eyes. Then he grinned, "This is just hitting fast forward." Then he reached up and captured the man's plump lips in a kiss.