Comfort Is A Strange Thing
"Jenna Surbridge, aged 17, strangled just outside of Leason Park and left in a small ditch on the side of the road," Lestrade rattled of the case details as Sherlock inspected the body of the young woman, who was sprawled out on a sheet of black plastic. He snapped open his pocket magnifying glass and held it to the purpling bruises collaring her neck. In a fluid motion, he stood and scanned the street she was found on, sharp green eyes squinting from the bright sunlight. John stood, leaning against the window of Lestrade's cruiser, eyes closed.
"You alright?" Greg came to stand beside the doctor, lifting up his sunglasses slightly.
"The victim, Jenna, reminds John of his sister," Sherlock answered, running his long fingertips over the white slats of a nearby picket fence, "It's difficult for him to inspect the body."
Lestrade's face relaxed into an expression of sympathy, "John-If it's hard for you I can have Anderson take a look." He motioned to the grumpy looking officer, who was chatting in a low voice with Donovan by an adjacent police car.
"No—no, it's fine," John protested weakly, but made no move towards the motionless figure lying face-up on the pavement. Sherlock swept over, his coat billowing around his calves. Lestrade raised his small notepad, looking at his consulting detective expectantly. Instead of rapidly solving the case at hand, however, Sherlock was gazing intently at John, who was staring back, his brow crinkled in a confused expression. To Lestrade's acute surprise, Sherlock wrapped his long arms awkwardly around the shocked doctor, whose face was suddenly pressed into his flat-mate's chest.
"Sher—," John's voice was muffled by the navy blue scarf wrapped around Sherlock's neck.
"Hugs are comforting, are they not?" Sherlock stepped back, inspecting John carefully. Shrugging, John motioned to Lestrade. At once, Sherlock sprang into a highly detailed deduction that left the detective inspector cursing as he attempted to write it all down.
"She was a walker of the night, 'Roxanne', if you will," Sherlock finished, pulling his collar up around his neck, "The murder was a simple gesture of hostility to a rival party, gang, most likely," He started walking towards the main road, glancing back quickly to see if John was following. He was, of course, after saying a hurried goodbye to Inspector Lestrade.
John caught up with Sherlock and padded silently beside him, his mind churning.
"You don't hug."
"Hmm?"
"You don't hug, you don't," John continued eagerly. It was a right pain in the arse trying to get Sherlock to talk about his actions, let alone his feelings, which he claimed he did not possess.
"People comfort people they care about," Said Sherlock shortly, determinedly not looking in John's questioning eyes.
"That's nice," Stated John simply. It was nice, being cared for by Sherlock Holmes. He smiled to himself as they walked towards the main road, a small glimmer of hope blossoming in his mind.
The cab ride was quieter than usual. Sherlock drummed his fingers on the armrest, creating an erratic beat. John glanced at the consulting detective, who was staring determinedly out the window. The ex-soldier was firm in his belief about his sexuality; heterosexual, as always. But ever since he had entered through those doors at 's and seen Sherlock standing there, hand suspended over a petri dish, John wasn't so sure. So he sat there, examining the long curves of his friend's neck, the prominent collarbones, pale unblemished skin. He looked, because at the moment, it was the only thing he could do. John Watson was straight, after all.
That night it rained. Heavy gusts of wind and hail buffeted the windows of 221b Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had insisted on a fire in the hearth in addition to the heat. John didn't mind, though. It was quite comfortable by the fireplace with a mug of steaming tea and an interesting book he had found on the cluttered shelf in the corner. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, which meant the flat was rather peaceful, uninterrupted by loud bangs or impatient snorts from the bored detective.
It getting late, around 11 o'clock, when Sherlock slunk into the living room like a wily cat. His eyes were flinty as he fixed his gaze on John, and curled into a ball in his armchair. John eyed him with an air of amusement.
"You been trying to sleep? For once?" He asked lightly. Sherlock steepled his fingers and gazed back at John with scrutiny, "Yes. Trying to."
"The rain keeping you up?"
Sherlock paused. "No."
"What is it, then?"
Sherlock let his steepled fingers fall until they pointed at John. "You."
John looked taken aback, "Me?"
The hail pattered relentlessly on the window, accompanied by the heavy whoosh of wind.
"You," Sherlock inclined his head and spoke to the ceiling, "I'm not—good, at relationships, John. I never have been, and I never will, yet, you elect to stay here with me and contribute fully in dangerous cases. Why? I asked myself this the day you agreed to move in with me. A complete stranger, who could deduce so much about you in one look, that'd scare anyone away. But not you," He got up suddenly and strode over to where John sat apprehensively, "I see you watching me, John, when you think I can't see."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Sherlock, I really don't," John rose and dodged Sherlock, crossing to the sink in the kitchen to clean out his empty mug.
"I'm the only consulting detective in the world, and you thought I wouldn't notice?" Sherlock followed him.
"Notice what?" John spat irritably. His heart was hammering inside his chest, panic flooding his mind.
"Desire, John," He was directly behind John, his lips practically brushing the doctor's neck.
"Stop it," John tensed, but did not move. Sherlock placed one hand on John's hip experimentally, grinning vaguely as the doctor sighed almost inaudibly. "I'm not-."
But John's protest was lost as Sherlock spun him around, kissing him full on the mouth. Sherlock's lips were softer than John expected, and surprisingly his mouth tasted nice, like peppermint. They broke apart after a minute. The detective's eyes bore into John's with an air of intense scrutiny, as if trying to decipher the result of another one of his experiments. Realizing his hands had been suspended in midair, John let his arms fall awkwardly to his sides.
"That—er—right, okay," He stammered, licking his lips. Yes, definitely peppermint.
"Just—okay?" Sherlock didn't look hurt, per say, but his shoulders slumped marginally and his bottom lip pouted slightly.
"New, that's all. I'm not—or—I didn't think you—,"
"Were gay?" Sherlock interrupted him.
"Well, yeah."
"I thought you figured that out the first night we met, at Angelo's." Sherlock grinned smugly down at the doctor, who was still crushed against the counter, " 'Not really my area', remember?"
"I had suspicions."
John brought his right hand to Sherlock's cheek. Slowly, he guided Sherlock's face down to his, and kissed him again. Wrapping both his arms around the detective's neck, he deepened the kiss, biting down on Sherlock's lower lip tentatively. With a low snarl, Sherlock hoisted John up onto the counter. Even sitting atop the counter John was barely taller than Sherlock, but he took advantage of the sudden height and enveloped his flat mate in another wild kiss, forcing his chin up to meet his mouth.
"Woohoo!" Mrs. Hudson called, rapping on the door with her knuckles, "You've got a visitor!"
The two scrambled away from each other, John hopping off the counter and away from his flat mate. Sherlock raked his fingers through his mussed up hair, closing his eyes for a moment before turning on the spot.
"A client?" He asked vaguely, glancing over at John who stood sheepishly against the refrigerator.
"Not a client, no," Mycroft strode into the room, a knowing smile playing on his lips as he caught sight of John's flushing cheeks, "Not—interrupting anything, am I?"
Sherlock ground his teeth irritably, "What do you want, Mycroft?"
"I'm allowed to check up on my younger brother once and a while, aren't I?"
"Not this late, you're not," Sherlock snapped, planting his hands on his slender hips.
The elder Holmes raised his eyebrows, suppressing a smug grin, "I'm here to invite you to a little—party I'm throwing this weekend. Do try and attend."
"A party?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distain, "What would you be throwing a party for?"
"Lestrade's engagement, haven't you heard?" Mycroft let out a terse laugh, leaning on the handle of his signature black umbrella, "He and Ms. Hooper just announced it last week—my, my you are getting slow."
"We'll be there," John intervened, nodding to Mycroft. The elder man returned the gesture graciously, "Thank you." He turned to exit the flat, pausing only to remark, "And do keep him in check, John, he doesn't like formalwear."
As soon as Mycroft left, John relaxed, unaware that he had been holding his breath. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was eyeing him curiously.
"We're going," John raised his eyebrows as Sherlock's expression lapsed into a pout, "Molly's our friend."
"I understand that, John. I'm just entirely averse to being herded into a small room with Molly's chatty relatives and well-wishers," He grumbled, throwing himself dramatically onto the sofa, "Why can't we congratulate her at the lab?"
John rolled his eyes, exasperated. Unfortunately, he was so used to Sherlock's violent mood swings that he simply edged out of the room and crept upstairs to his bedroom.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock stretched out on the couch, neck straining as he followed John's progress up the staircase.
"Getting some sleep."
"What for?"
"Sherlock, if you want to come, just ask," John grinned to himself as he slipped into his bedroom, leaving the door open a crack. He was just climbing into bed when Sherlock appeared in the threshold, his expression one of nervousness bordering on irritation.
"I don't really-I'm not sure where you stand on this," Sherlock waved his hand vaguely between them, "Since we got interrupted by my clot of a brother."
"Oh just get in, will you?" John patted the duvet to his right, grinning encouragingly. Obliging, Sherlock shed off his navy blue dressing gown and crawled onto the mattress, slipping underneath the covers. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do next. Huffing in amusement, John leaned across him and flicked off the light. The street-lamps outside cast a faint orange glow around the room, illuminating half of Sherlock's pensive face. Sighing, John curled into him, throwing an arm lazily across Sherlock's chest. With gentle goading, Sherlock was eventually fast asleep, his nose pressed into John's ashy blonde hair. Just as John faded contentedly into unconsciousness, he wondered how the hell he was going to get Sherlock Holmes to wear a tux.