A/N: Okay, a bit nervous about this one. It's my first (published) attempt at something actually mushy between these two. I'm really hoping they're still IC. Go easy on me guys! (And yes I have used these lyrics in ASiD but they just fit so well with this one so I had to use them again okay?) Remember, I thrive on faves and reviews! And I don't know, maybe if you guys show enough appreciation I'll continue and make the end even better ;) Sorry about any errors, I still have no beta/Brit-picker. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Nope.
Come feel my heart
It's beating like a drum and I confess
When you're around
It's like an army's marching through my chest
And there's nothing I can do
I just gravitate towards you
You're pulling on me like the moon
I just wanna get you sideways
I say anything I can to get me more than just a dance
Tell me where to put my hands
You know that you could be my favourite one-night stand
You get me higher
"John!"
A pause. Silence.
"John!" came the call again.
John sighed. He was reading a novel, in his chair, and had just gotten to the good part. Why couldn't Sherlock have decided to call for him an hour earlier, when John was book-less, before he had decided to go to the book-store in a desperate attempt to stifle his boredom? He knew - he always knew. The man could practically read minds, after all. Sherlock was being deliberately, infuriatingly untimely, just to rile him up.
And John stopped that train of thought in its tracks because wow he sounded like a paranoid nutjob. Living with Sherlock tended to cause you to question your sanity apparently.
Then again, the whole questioning aspect was probably justified.
"John!" Sherlock's vast impatience was skilfully projected through the walls with just one word.
"What is it, Sherlock?" John yelled back, not moving an inch, not taking his eyes off the page. If Sherlock wanted him that badly for whatever non-emergency had come up, he could bloody well wait until John was finished or do whatever needed doing himself. He only had a couple of chapters to go anyway.
John turned the page.
There was the sound of things being flung about and thumps when said unnamed objects hit the floor or the wall, maybe the ceiling. A crash, followed by a muffled curse floated from Sherlock's room. John didn't even bat an eyelid.
Sherlock emerged from his lair, looking for all the world like something or someone (John) had done him a dreadful wrong. Like pinned him for murder. Actually, no, he would probably love proving the accusations incorrect. He looked more like someone had told him they had intentionally corrupted all of his ongoing experiments.
So pretty damn put out, then.
He flounced in his favourite blue dressing gown towards John's chair, rounding so he was in front of the doctor, who was still reading.
"I called for you," Sherlock enunciated, like he was talking to a particularly mentally-deficient Yarder.
"Mmm," came John's absent reply.
Sherlock's pout would have put a six-year-old's to shame, so it was a terrible thing that it was wasted on such an unreceptive audience.
"I require your immediate assistance with a matter of great importance," Sherlock said, looking as if he was on the verge of stomping his foot.
John made a slight sound of amusement at that, as if to say yes, a matter of phenomenal global-warming-solving importance, I'm sure.
Sherlock stood there, arms crossed, tapping his foot, glaring at his flatmate. After a moment he leant forward, resting his hands on the chair's arms. He eyed John over his book, and turned the full power of his unrelenting, ice-laser gaze on him.
John sensed Sherlock's proximity and made the mistake of glancing up. He was caught unawares, locked in place by - something, he was unsure of what exactly, but definitely something more - in the detective's already devastating eyes. John tried not to notice his heart-rate picking up.
Sherlock lowered his voice, so his deep baritone seemed to reverberate like the bass of a stereo turned up to max: "I need your help with something, John."
John swore the words travelled straight through him - through his skin, his muscles and organs and tissues, resonating in his very bones. Which was probably why he was involuntarily, ever so slightly, trembling with the power of it.
God, that voice. It wasn't like melted chocolate, or red velvet, or the symphonies of an intricate piece. It was worse than all of those things, because it was so much more. Like something that shouldn't exist. One man should not have a voice that he could manipulate so … effectively to sound so exactly like pure sex.
His mouth. That terrible, distracting, contradicting mouth: abrasive and razor-sharp one moment, smooth and enticing the next; sculpted in the shape of cupid's bow. That feminine shape should not have suited a man so well, but it wasn't the first time Sherlock was the exception to a rule. And John was absolutely not thinking about how those lips would feel beneath his own.
His cheekbones, so prominent and sharp should not be visible on a living person. But they were, and covered in porcelain skin. John had the sudden urge to touch them, just to see what they'd feel like, to see what his skin would feel like. Would it be cold like his personality, like his eyes?
And speaking of eyes: Sherlock's were so full of ice but so heated at this very moment, and they drove right into John, and only John, like his was particularly puzzling piece of evidence, like he was interesting.
Straight or not, John was feeling something flip over and stir restlessly deep inside him and he could feel heat rising to his face and his breathing becoming erratic and oh God this was bad.
Because really, what the HELL was Sherlock playing at?
A little voice inside his head cried: No, what the hell is wrong with YOU?! But John shot that thought down because really, this was Sherlock, actor extraordinaire.
He could hardly blame himself for his reaction…
For a second, John just sat there, trying to regain control of the body that seemed determined to not only betray but absolutely humiliate him. Sherlock continued to strip John with his eyes (no, no, NO stop it stop bloody thinking like that). What was - why was - John didn't understand this at all! When had a simple summons turned into - whatever the hell this was?
"Sh-Sherlock?" John managed to get out, and he felt a sudden desire to die of shame upon hearing his voice break.
But just like that, the spell was broken.
It took John a while to realise Sherlock had straightened. He clapped his hands together, rubbing them together in a manner which could only be described as gleeful. John startled, struggling out of his abrupt plunge into a lust-induced stupor.
"Oh never mind John, I can see you're quite busy. Up to the climax of the story, if I'm not mistaken?"
John tried not to choke on his own spit at the word climax.
"… Which I never am, so I'll leave you to it then, shall I?" Sherlock turned away to hide his smirk, and with a twirl of his dressing gown he was gone, the sound of his bedroom door closing the only sign of his departure noticeable to John.
John blinked, swaying slightly as he fought to rein in his wild, turbulent thoughts.
Book forgotten, John decided there was never a better time to get some air.
When John came back from getting some lovely therapeutic air, Sherlock was as still as the dead, stretched out on the sofa in his trademark Thinking Pose. John took a deep breath, steeling himself. He figured now was the opportune moment to question his flatmate about … what had transpired earlier that evening, because he didn't think he would be able to work up the courage to bring it up again later. And if he was being honest with himself, he was more than a little curious (if not wary) about the reasons and motivations behind Sherlock's little … display.
It was probably nothing. A misunderstanding, surely.
"Sherlock," John started, ignoring the 'go away, John' vibe emanating from his unmoving friend.
There was a loud and long, overly-dramatic, long-suffering sigh.
"No."
"I- what?" John responded in bewilderment.
"You're obviously itching to ask me something. Your strong stance and bunched fists tell me that."
John neglected to point out that Sherlock hadn't actually opened his eyes since John had set foot in the flat.
"It's something related to an event that transpired earlier tonight, something that caused you to 'need some air'," the quote marks were made visible as Sherlock saturated the words with condescension, "The event itself is obvious, of course. You're unnerved, but your curiosity outweighs your discomfort, so you're bringing it up. Perhaps you believe you won't be able to later. But no, the point is what exactly you want to ask me. Your preconceived ideals of me would undoubtedly have led you to the conclusion that I am acting the ever-inquisitive, morally ignorant scientist you know me to be. In other words, that I am experimenting. But you think you're mistaken. No, you're hoping you're mistaken, because you don't want to find me to be a sociopath like everyone says, including myself. You were about to ask me bluntly because that's what you do: take the problem head on with the determination of one practised in the skills of combat. And the answer to your question, my dear John, is no, that was not an experiment of the sort you are thinking, so your little heart can rest assured."
Not once had Sherlock deigned it fit to open his eyes and look at John through his entire tirade, and now he did. And there was no heat, no ice, nothing in his gaze. Merely … awareness. He had his walls up, and all was unreadable, even to the one person who probably knew him the best of all. His face was a mask of blank that would have done a faceless mannequin proud.
John knew better by now than to take the bait. He may not be the genius of the two of them, but he was certainly the adult here.
"Okay, fine, Sherlock. You're right. But if it wasn't an experiment, then what … was that?" John attempted to shove any illicit, residual thoughts away. He needed to focus.
Sherlock closed his eyes and groaned, throwing his head back in frustration, "If we're going to converse, John, the least you could do is pay attention."
Any deviant thoughts sparked by Sherlock's … groaning-and-head-throwing theatrics (exposing a long, pale neck, with tendons stretching, skin so unmarked, inviting - no - begging to be savoured, devoured, owned) dispersed as his words sunk in and a flicker of anger flared up in John.
"Don't, Sherlock. Be straight with me," John glared at his flatmate's infuriating neck, because it was still exposed.
Then Sherlock raised his head to look at him, and John caught the look of amusement in his eyes. Just a trace, barely there even, but John knew Sherlock, he did, and he caught it. Too late, John realised his unfortunate choice of words.
John tried not to grin despite himself.
"I- no. Look, Sherlock, if we're both straight with each other this misunderstanding can be resolved quickly and we can get on with it."
They held gazes for a moment before simultaneously dissolving into giggles. Sherlock chuckled as he watched John stumble towards a chair and collapse into it. Both ended up grinning manically at one another, and for a moment they were just Sherlock and John again; best mates who acted like morons with each other.
"Okay, stop. Enough with the innuendos. I'm serious, alright. What was all that about?" John leaned forward, smile fading as he pursed his lips.
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him, "I wasn't the one making insinuations."
John rolled his eyes, and said, reprovingly, "Sherlock."
Not the point.
Sherlock's gaze drifted from John's, so it was focussed just above and to the side of his head.
"It was … a test. I was gathering data," Sherlock said after a moment slowed by the tension between them.
John frowned in consternation, "But you just said it wasn't an experiment-"
"Of the type you're thinking, yes. This was … a different kind," the detective replied in a flat tone.
Sherlock's face was blocked off once again: Nothing getting through, nothing getting out. John didn't like it, not one bit.
"You think I was recording data, analysing it, cataloguing it for use in investigations, for cases. For the work," he continued, in a quiet tone.
There was another pause, and John's heart was picking up again.
"Wait a second. If not for the work, then … for what, exactly?" John tried to squish his hopes down.
Because now the idea had returned - that tiny little smidgeon of an idea that John had worked so hard to bury over the time he had come to know and care for Sherlock. John had sensed it building, but it was like a volcano. No going back, no way of stopping it. This was what he had been trying to get a proper hold of while he was out getting some air. Not his lust, because that would have been somewhat of a normal response, given the situation. They could just as easily talk about that, laugh it off and forget about it. No, it wasn't the lust he was trying to squelch, it was his other feelings.
Heart racing, butterflies fluttering, breathing sporadic. Thoughts flying, fantasies racing, brain malfunctioning. Everything - his body mind heart, actions thoughts reactions - spiralling, sprinting, swerving out of control.
Feeling so much, too much, towards his best friend that he felt he would spontaneously combust from it.
But it refused to be destroyed and oh god hope was such a dangerous, dangerous thing: there was no way Sherlock would feel anything remotely similar to the way John felt about him, about anyone, least of all John, so it would only hurt in the end, having so much bloody hope that he ever would, or ever could.
Oh, but if hope was dangerous, the combination of doubt and hope together might as well be a ticking time bomb.
And it seemed John was timed to explode today, for better or for worse.
John had tried to keep his voice light, to keep from letting any of the weight he felt on his chest leak through into his words, but Sherlock seemed to sense the shift in him. He sat up, fixing and narrowing his eyes on John. John tried to swallow his heart, which seemed to be lodged in his throat for some reason.
"Your pulse is faster than usual," Sherlock began slowly, "Your knuckles are strained white from clenching your hands. Blood rushing to your cheeks, your ears. Pupils dilated. Licking your lips in what - agitation? No, anticipation … Oh! Oh, of course. There's always something."
Sherlock leant back, cocking his head. Observing John like a flora specimen through his microscope.
John squeezed his eyes shut and tried to will his body to die. Because oh god Sherlock knew, didn't he - of course he did he practically knew everything - he knew and he was going to scorn him, condescend, lash out hurt him say he was stupid I don't have time for this nonsense get your act together John I expected better from you but John couldn't take that wouldn't take that can't won't don't no please please-
"John," Sherlock's calm voice cut through John's galloping thoughts.
Once John had his breathing back under control and the world had stopped tilting, Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again with a frown, trying to find the right words. If John wasn't so preoccupied, he would have laughed.
"John. I - I'm sorry," Sherlock said quietly, haltingly, looking down at the floor.
A startled, humourless laugh escaped John. He should be sorry, yes, but there were many things Sherlock should apologise for, so John needed clarification: "Oh? And what for, exactly?"
Sherlock's head snapped up and he glared at him, "Are you not getting enough oxygen to your brain at the moment? Isn't it painstakingly obvious? It should be, considering it occurred not ten minutes ago. I apologise for triggering your panic attack."
They silently assessed one another for a moment, the air around them heavy with the things they knew, things they didn't, and things unsaid. Sherlock was the one who broke the thin glass pane of a stalemate.
"It was a test, yes, but not for a social experiment or any such scientific inquiry. I did it for - personal reasons," Sherlock said the words stiffly.
John waited.
Sherlock sighed. He leaned forward once more and said his next words quickly, as if getting them out fast enough would allow him to retain some of his cold detachment, "It has recently come to my attention that I appear to care for you in ways I have not with any other before. There's an incessant buzz in my head, perhaps worse even than the necessity of keeping my mind occupied with the work. I seem to want things - no, require things - from you. I could not make sense of this with the little data I had, so I sought to gain more."
John stared at him. "What?" he said in his speak-plain-bloody-English voice.
Sherlock exhaled in monumental frustration at John's apparent deliberate obtuseness. He closed his eyes, and spoke slowly with barely-there patience, "I care about you. I am unable to stop thinking about it but - I - I feel - " he faltered.
He bowed his head, shaking it in exasperation.
John never thought he would live to see the day Sherlock was rendered incapable of speech.
"Sherlock?" John hazarded to give him a little encouragement, "You know I care about you too, right? You're my best mate."
His friend growled in frustration, whirling up into a stand and waving his arms about like the world was being ridiculous just to spite him, "That's it, John. That's exactly it. I don't - I don't want -"
He ruffled his hands through his hair as he paced, muttering under his breath. John watched on in trepidation, feeling more and more like Sherlock was about to utter words that would cause his whole world to crumble apart.
Sherlock knew - knew about John's cursed feelings. Sherlock found it distracting, disturbing, maybe even a little intimidating. Sherlock liked John's company, liked his assistance with the flat and with the work, but this new spin on things made him uncomfortable. Confused. Irritated. The experiment was to verify his deductions. And now that he knew for sure, he - felt the need to put an end to it.
Sherlock stopped pacing, his revelation face making an abrupt appearance, "John, this can't continue."
And that was about the time John felt his surroundings come to a grinding, shuddering, screeching stop. John closed his eyes against the image of the impassive, pale, unobtainable man standing before him, burning into his retinas.
How had everything gone so wrong, so quickly?
When John drew in a deep breath and spoke, he voice sounded foreign to his own ears, but at least it didn't waver. "Give me a day at least. To pack my things."
Now Sherlock was confused. He frowned, "Why?"
John stood, avoiding looking at his everything, standing there in the middle of the room. He absolutely did not feel the ridiculous urge to cry because he was losing it all. But he was.
"I- I'm sorry this couldn't work. I guess we'll see each other around though."
He turned to go, but before he could take another step, Sherlock grabbed his arm and whirled him around, his hands gripping John's upper arms to hold him in place. John couldn't help the sense of déjà vu it incited, couldn't help thinking about coded messages and yellow paint. Sherlock scrutinized John's face, eyes flicking over him, thoughts racing behind those icy eyes. John tried to wrench himself away, but this heart-broken Watson was no match for Holmes and his vice-like grip and willpower. He resorted to keeping his head down instead.
"Ah," Sherlock exhaled, relaxing, "Amateur's mistake. Don't draw conclusions without all the facts, John," he voiced in a clipped tone.
John tensed. He needed to get away before any more damage was done. Self-preservation instincts weren't impaired, then. But it wasn't like Sherlock could make it worse than he already had.
"Let go, Sherlock," John said quietly.
"No," Sherlock's grip intensified, if that was even possible, "You're wrong. You think I want you to leave me in peace, to stop distracting me from the work. You think that I care about you in the sense that I appreciate your input and constant coddling and house-keeping."
John tried to breathe normally, but he felt as if every breath lodged another shard of glass in his throat.
"You're wrong, John," Sherlock murmured, stepping closer.
John shook his head in denial.
"You are," Sherlock's voice was little more than a whisper.
Sensing no sign that John was about to bolt, he eased his grip and leant down, lips, breath, voice brushing against John's ear.
He continued.
"Your feelings for me are a distraction, yes, but not an unwelcome one," his voice dropping an octave or two. John closed his eyes, shivering, traitorous cock twitching at the sound.
"You make me feel more than anyone else ever has," he corroborated this with a playful little nip at John's earlobe, causing one ex-Army doctor to yelp. God, yes.
"You make me frustrated, angry, irritated. But you also make me feel - other emotions too. Good emotions," he smiled against the skin of John's cheek, breathing kisses onto it. John inhaled sharply. Oh.
"Sherlock, what- I don't understa-" John tried to move back to see his expression, but Sherlock had one arm around his waist and one around his shoulders, hand holding John's head in place and when had that happened?
"Yes, John, you do. Once again you see but do not observe," Sherlock placed a chaste kiss on his temple, sighing in mock exasperation, breath ruffling John's soft hair slightly, "When will you learn?"
John was back to trying to control his erratic heartbeat. They were standing so close, all John could see was the long, pale expanse of Sherlock's neck. Without consciously making the decision to do so, John wound his arms around Sherlock possessively, caging him in. I'm not letting go.
He felt rather than heard Sherlock shake with laughter, as if reading John's thoughts. Then he spoke reverently, "I meant what I said, John. We can't continue being only best friends. You're the doctor - surely you of all people know it would be far from healthy."
John snorted at that, "I'm not a therapist, Sherlock. It's not exactly my area of expertise."
Sherlock held him closer for a second, squeezing. It might have been a hug. Then he stepped back slightly and looked directly into John's eyes.
John gulped under the intensity of his gaze, "So, um. When you said you can't stop thinking about it … that you require things from me, that you didn't understand it -"
Sherlock's eyes seemed to flare to life, going up about 100 degrees and making John's body do the same.
Oh. Alright then.
A slow, cheeky grin, possibly bordering on downright-devious-with-serious-intent spread Sherlock's alluring lips wide. John flushed beetroot red, but his entire being was screaming God, YES, and he felt lighter than air.
"I think it's time you taught me a few things, don't you, Doctor?"
When their mouths finally crashed together, it was messy and desperate. It wasn't perfect. It was probably inopportune and it was definitely reckless.
But, in truth, both of them had never felt more alive. Sherlock wanted him, really wanted him, and to John that was just fine.
He grinned as Sherlock's plush lips warm mouth dexterous tongue pressed and toyed with his own, as he wound his hands through soft, dark curls to draw the detective in as close as possible.
It's all fine.
- fin -
UPDATE (24/11/12): Made some minor changes, and uploaded to AO3! The link's in my profile :)