For the extraordinarily talented and wonderful MapleleafCameo - Happy Birthday my lovely!
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original storyline.
'If Sherlock yells bored at me one more time' John had muttered under his breath as he left 221B 'I may just kill him myself!'
He marched down the crowded shop-lined street, having found his usual perambulation around Regents Park to be lacking in the required soothing qualities. But after two hours of walking, being pushed and jostled by shoppers – and then workers rushing home – John was beginning to regret leaving the flat.
Damp from the late April showers, and thoroughly miserable, he had turned back towards Baker Street when an item in the window of a small shop caught his eye. John stopped and stared for a moment, and then he smiled. This could be just the thing he needed.
xOx
His mood considerably lighter, John let himself back into the flat to find the consulting detective still in his pyjamas, sulking on the couch. With a small secretive smile, the doctor took his carrier bag into the kitchen, keeping it close at hand as he re-heated the remains of last night's Indian meal and divided it between two plates.
Depositing Sherlock's plate on the coffee table beside the couch, John retreated to his chair, placing his plate carefully on his lap. Removing his new possession from its bag, he placed it on the arm of his chair.
"What have you bought?" Sherlock had opened one eye and was staring in John's direction, his food totally ignored.
"New laptop."
"Oh please – any idiot can see it's a notepad." The younger man's voice was scathing.
John flipped open the cover and wrote a quick note on the first page.
"Well?" Sherlock continued as John carried on eating his meal. "What do you want a notepad for? It's not as if it'll fit in your pocket."
Still no response, just another note placed on the page.
"It's too big," he added, emphasising every word.
John just hummed in agreement and wrote.
Scrambling into a sitting position Sherlock glared, willing a response that didn't involve a pen and a notepad. He was disappointed as another note was added.
Sulkily he looked down at his plate, calculating John's reaction to him throwing it, contents and all, at the wall.
"Don't think about it," was all John said, barely moving his attention from the last of his food, except to write another line.
Picking up his fork he speared a piece of Bombay Aloo, biting into it as if it was his mortal enemy.
John smiled, and wrote.
Then, his own meal finished, he got up and took both his empty plate and his notepad out to the kitchen, where he set about making tea.
Begrudgingly, Sherlock started to eat his food, noting the exact moment John took his pen out of his shirt pocket and wrote once more in what he was starting to think of as 'that damned book'.
Carrying the mugs of tea into the living room, the doctor had tucked his notepad under his arm. His flatmate, watching covertly from under errant black curls, noted that the part of the cover that he could see was bright yellow ('An unlikely choice for John, must be the only colour they do it in') and he could see the word 'PANCAKE ' in large black letters, but he was certain that it wasn't the only word written there.
John sat down, took a sip of his tea, and wrote – just one or two lines – then relaxed back against the cushion on his chair and flipped the book shut again. Sherlock was determined not to ask again about the purchase, nor to show any interest whatsoever. If John didn't want to tell him then really, he didn't want to know! He huffed quietly.
Infuriatingly, John remained quiet, so Sherlock snatched up the TV remote and switched on an inane police procedural, and then sprawled in a mess of graceful limbs and bare midriff. The blond doctor looked across at his friend and smiled, then wrote some more.
Frustrated at John's calm silence, the consulting detective – in his very best imitation of a stroppy teenager – pulled his blue robe around himself and flipped round to face the back of the couch, reaching up to pull the folded shock blanket over him in a haphazard fashion.
John frowned.
"Are you cold?" He asked, his eyes scanning the blue and orange lump on the furniture.
"Oh, so you've condescended to speak to me now, have you?" the baritone voice was muffled by cushions.
"Git" John replied as he wrote once more, then "Do you need me to light the fire?"
The dark curly head shook a negative reply, as thin shoulders hunched under the blanket.
As the night closed in around them John, who had in turn been reading or watching his lover sulking across the room, finally tucked his notepad behind the cushion on his chair as he stood up and crossed the room to ruffle Sherlock's hair.
"I'm going to bed, you coming?"
And Sherlock, who had been acutely aware every time John's eyes rested on him, hunched further under the blanket.
"Sleeping's boring" he announced.
John straightened the blanket over him, kissed the top of his head, and with a chuckled "G'night 'Lock" padded softly towards the bedroom.
xOx
On the couch, Sherlock listened to the soft movements in the bedroom, the sounds of John changing into pyjama bottoms and an old tatty t-shirt, the gentle 'shushing' sound of him sliding under the duvet onto crisp Egyptian cotton sheets.
Impatiently he waited until he was certain the other man was asleep, then he slid out of his cocoon and invaded John's chair, reaching for the notepad that had been annoying him all night.
At first his plan had been to destroy it completely, but the front cover caught his attention. It was a soft steel grey, with the words '1970's Style Laptop' written in bold white lettering. Interest piqued, he sunk slowly into the seat, abandoning his favourite leather chair for the intimacy of reading John's notepad in John's personal space.
'See – you saw the cover – it's a LAPTOP'
Sherlock frowned. John had known he would read it – why else would he write that comment? He slammed the book shut and put it on the arm of the chair, in slightly more heavy-handed imitation of John's actions earlier in the evening.
Abstinence didn't last past the first remembrance of the sight of John's writing filling the page, each 'note' separated by a blank line, making each a statement in its own right. Picking it up again, Sherlock opened it once more.
'I love you so much that sometimes it overwhelms me'
Confusion caused a small frown to crease his brow.
'I want to explain – will you let me do that?'
He settled back into the chair to read on.
'I love you when you're angry, or bored, or just being petulant. I love you when you're excited about a case, or when you're on a self-satisfied high because you were the only one who could solve it.'
He'd always known that though – hadn't he?
'I love you even more when we daren't look at each other for fear of giggling – especially at crime scenes'
John had once referred to them as kindred spirits; Sherlock had scoffed, telling him to save his flowery prose for his blog, but this was what he had meant, this empathy that they had almost from the very beginning.
'I love the way you speak volumes without saying a word – your face, undoubtedly beautiful, is also incredibly expressive.'
Thoughts stilled as he read on.
'And your mouth - I adore what you can do with your mouth….for me, and with me, and to me'
Sherlock swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry.
'When I'm not in the same room as you I feel bereft. And I know what you're thinking, reading this….'
'Sentiment' he whispered, allowing himself a small smile.
'Your eyes burn me from across the room, and I find it hard to breathe. They say the eyes are windows to the soul – and your soul shimmers there just for me, only ever for me'
The smile faded and Sherlock placed a hand on his stomach, as if to still the curious fluttering he felt there.
'In all my years as a doctor I don't think I've ever seen skin as perfect as yours – it looks like cold hard marble, but it's warm…so warm…and soft'
The fluttering grew stronger, his nipples suddenly hard, sensitised at the thoughts the words inspired. Looking down at the book in his lap, he read the final note.
'I love your voice, always and everywhere, but most especially at night, in the dark, when you are lying beneath me and moaning my name. No song ever written, no violin concerto can compare to it'
Heat suffused Sherlock's body as he stared at the words on the page. His heart thudded in his chest and his hands trembled, ever so slightly.
"Sherlock"
Hearing his name spoken softly from behind him, Sherlock leapt to his feet and turned, seeing the man who had caused this reaction standing in the doorway, his hand outstretched, his smile a sensual promise.
"Come to bed."
A/N: Thanks to Waldo Pancake and their 1970's Style Laptop notebook for the inspiration for this story