- EXPERIMENTS IN CUDDLING -
By : CherryFlavouredPoison
Fandom : Sherlock
Parings : Some Sherlock/John (can be read as epic bromance or pre-slash)
Rating : T
Genre : Friendship/ Hurt/Comfort
Narration : Third Person
DISCLAIMER : Sherlock characters belong to ACD, the Sherlock show belongs to the BBC. I'm not making any profit of this fic.
Other Warnings : Some OOCness, Slightly disturbing images of a case
Beta: Cutie-Chu
A sequel to "It's Elementary!". Would be wise to read that one first, but it's not needed, since most of the explanation is provided in the fic. I hope you enjoy reading this!
"Mrs. Hudson, you're a saint. I'll be eternally grateful."
"Oh, no fuss, dear. It's just a couple of teabags, isn't it?"
John's expression showed that they were more than just teabags to him, but he stayed silent. Today has been extremely tiring for him – he and Joan wanted to enjoy a pleasant evening out, but during their absence, Sherlock and Mr. Holmes (come think of it, he'd never gotten to know his name) had a discussion/childish banter with the extensive use of objects thrown at one another. When Joan left, John attempted to patronize Sherlock with one of his usual speeches, and somehow, they ended up hugging. John had felt slightly embarrassed by that situation – it certainly wasn't something that normal flatmates did, even if they weren't exactly normal to start with. He had cured himself with the remedy for all problems – a steamy hot cup of Earl Grey – when Sherlock yet again surprised him with a hug from behind and a mumbled incoherency about an experiment, his breath hovering directly over one of John's shoulder blades. That left John very flustered for some reason, and he barely registered what Sherlock said next, which just so happened to be, "Oh, and don't bother to look for tea – there's none left."
Thus, John was left to drag himself downstairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat in order to borrow some.
"Well then, goodnight, Mrs. Hudson," John said finally, turning to retreat back upstairs until the landlady stopped him.
"John? That lady friend you had over this evening... who is she exactly?"
"Oh, um... she's a work-mate, of sorts. She's a surgeon. Joan Watson."
"Isn't that a funny coincidence!" Mrs. Hudson smiled brightly. "If the two of you married, she wouldn't even have to change her surname!"
"It's not like that, Mrs. H, we're... we're not together. She has a boyfriend - that man she bought over here. Well, they're not exactly a couple, but they clearly have a thing for each other."
"Oh, so it's like you and Sherlock, then," her smile never wavered, now that she (apparently) understood the situation.
"...It's not that way. We're not together either. We're just..." He was at a loss of words. For the first time during he and Sherlock's companionship, he wasn't sure how to deem the relationship between them.
And that was when Sherlock decided to show up. Truthfully, he couldn't have chosen a worse moment. The detective stood on the top of the stairs, inky curls in disarray, pyjamas rumpled, and a bleary eye rubbed by one of his hands which basically made him look like a gigantic five year old.
"Are you coming to bed, John?" He asked, stifling a yawn.
John blushed crimson, in response to which Mrs. Hudson hid her growing smile behind her palm, saying 'I'll just leave you boys on your own' and quickly disappearing behind the door to her apartment.
Sighing, the doctor ascended the stairs and entered the flat, ignoring Sherlock's questioning 'John?' called after him. He slowly made his way to the living room where he proceeded to take a seat on the sofa heavily and hide his face in his hands.
"Tomorrow, the whole town will think that we're shagging," he mumbled from behind his hands.
"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock said sharply. "As if I would even imagine engaging in such a preposterous activity."
"It probably makes no difference to you, but I really don't want everyone thinking that I'm having sex with my male flatmate."
The detective said something that sounded similar to 'it's probably too late for that' and then turned to face the wall. Awkward silence settled between the two of them until Sherlock's face suddenly morphed into a look of revelation – the one he got when he found a particularly important lead in a case – as he stormed to his bedroom, leaving John no less than stunned.
"Well, at least it wasn't a waste of time to go borrow those tea bags," John muttered to himself, dropping the subject as he got up from the sofa and went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of very-much-needed tea. He poured the boiling water over the tea bag and watched as the liquid turned from transparent to a delicious shade of golden amber. As soon as the first gulp of the hot beverage slid down his throat, he felt a blissfully warm feeling envelop his entire being. John drank down his tea, set the mug in the sink, and decided to re-enter the living room...
...Only to find that Sherlock was now seated on the sofa, fiddling with something that looked suspiciously like a silk tie. John cautiously approached him, looking at the detective expectantly.
"...So? What's this experiment you've been telling me about?"
"Oh, right!" Sherlock suddenly broke out of his reverie. "We don't necessarily have to conduct it in bed, if it makes you uncomfortable - we can just do it on the sofa." He patted the space next to him for the doctor to sit down. John wanted to say that even talking about this was unsettling him, but instead, he grudgingly complied and sat down. "Put this on," the detective commanded as he passed the tie to John and waited until it was fastened snugly around his neck; he deliberately ignored the confused looks John had been sending him.
Then, slowly, he turned to face John and slide closer to him, disregarding any boundary line of personal space. Their knees bumped into each other, but Watson was too busy blushing to notice. For a split, one eighth of a second, John thought that Sherlock was going to kiss him, so he was momentarily surprised when he felt the tie around his neck constrict slightly, but not enough to be painful. He wanted to question what exactly was happening, but Sherlock sprung up from the sofa suddenly, letting go of the tie.
He bounced across the living room, opened up his laptop – which was previously laying closed on the kitchen table – and started typing something on it furiously. John was left seated on the sofa, dumbstruck. What on earth just happened?
He must have said the last thought out loud because Sherlock answered him, all the while not stopping the clacking of his keyboard. "It was an experiment, John! Remember last week's case? The one with the banker, Gilbert Reiser, found strangled in his hotel room? Lestrade has wrongly assumed that it was the doing of a jealous lover – a meeting set up with a Mr. Douglas Carlisle, because of the state in which we found the corpse – his shirt buttons were undone, remember? But I knew there was something wrong – it was his tie! I doubt he would still have it on if he was meeting a lover, and the tie was still around his neck. It was obvious that he was strangled with it, but it was not Carlisle that killed him. It was a woman, John, one named Jennie Waverley. Or, as we know her – Diana Bartlett."
"The... girl at the reception?" John briefly remembered a redhead with blood-shot eyes at the reception desk.
"The very same. We missed one thing, which happened to be crucial – the true nature of Carlisle's connection to the victim; he wasn't his lover, he was his co-worker. They met up at a hotel room in which they discussed that Reiser felt uncomfortable about everyone assuming that they are dating just because they worked together. So, he asked Carlisle to find him a girl that would keep up appearances. Carlisle complied, being the good friend that he was, and asked the first girl that gave any indication of wanting to sleep with a client – Diana, or rather, Jennie. I am almost certain that she tried flirting with him earlier. But there was one thing Carlisle didn't know about her, which eventually became Resier's demise. You see, Jennie has a certain penchant for corpses – she came up to the victim's room that night, and instead of foreplay, as Reiser was expecting, she greeted him by strangling him with his tie. Later, she attempted to engage herself in a physical connection with him, but she was stopped, only undoing the buttons to his shirt. But why did she stop...? Oh, of course! She couldn't have done anything to him – it'd leave too much evidence on the corpse. So she left him, strangled and partially undressed. She wanted to stay up and pretend that she was the person to find the corpse – hence the blood-shot eyes – but she was beaten to it by the cleaning lady who found it instead. It's brilliant!"
"Oh..." John said absent-mindedly. "Wait a second... did you just say that she's a necrophile?"
"Yes – she was a mental patient some time ago, but they believed she'd been cured of all her sexual deviations and decided to let her go. I remember reading about a while back – in a police report, I think. She had minor criminal records on her behalf, one of those being breaking into a mortuary." As Sherlock explained, the mere thought of the situation made John sick. Somewhere in the background, Sherlock stopped typing and got up from the chair, "I have to text Lestrade – we have a murderer to catch!" He strode across the room once more, grabbed his phone and sent a quick message to the DI. He looked up from the screen of the device and was met with John's slightly off-put expression.
"John," he said softly, "If it wasn't for you, I would have never found the answer to this case."
"And what exactly did I do?" John asked, a bit of colour rising to his cheeks.
"You said, 'I wouldn't want everyone thinking that I'm having sex with my male flatmate.'"
John dawned a look of surprise once more, still not having fully recovered from the pile of sickening news dropped upon him. Sherlock sighed heavily and crossed the space between them in three large steps, sitting down on the couch quite close to where John was seated.
"You are amazing."
John jerked his head up just as Sherlock leaned in and pressed a very light, very brief peck to his forehead. He pulled away after a second, shying his head away. "Not good?" He mumbled in a small voice.
"Oh, just–" John pulled Sherlock by the wrist and laid down on the couch, the detective's face pressed firmly to his chest.
"And just a while ago you thought my hugs were awkward," Sherlock couldn't help but mock.
"Shut up, you big tosser. You should know that I enjoy them as much as you do."
Sherlock smiled into the fabric of his jumper, and as silence befell them, John contemplated going to sleep. He was so warm, so comfortable...
"How are we going to explain this to Mrs. Hudson?"
Hearing that, John hummed in askance since his exhaustion prevented him from saying anything more coherent.
"Just an hour ago, when you were talking downstairs, you weren't sure what to call the relationship between us when you tried deflecting Mrs. Hudson's statement about us being a couple."
"Mhm... but now I know exactly what to call our relationship."
"Well?" Sherlock asked, nuzzling deeper into John's hold and enjoying the tightening of arms around his waist and back.
And then, no louder than a breath of air, John replied, "Sherlock Holmes: consulting detective, and John Watson: his personal pillow."
Every time you leave a review, Mycroft gets a slice of cake!
- Cherry