Moth to a Flame
Watson stumbled into the flat, headed towards the kitchen. He
desperately needed a cup of tea. His flatmate flopped onto the couch,
not bothering to take off his coat. It had been a very long day.
Anderson had been more annoying than usual, Sarah was refusing to call
him, and he had ripped his jumper running from a very nasty goat.
Sherlock had found that hilarious.
"Those things are dangerous!" he had protested. "They've got sharp
horns and sharper teeth! And have you seen how fast they can run?"
"This is coming from the man who invaded Afganistan?"
"Oh, shut up."
Watson glanced over at Sherlock. He was curled up catlike on the sofa,
black curls sticking up at every possible angle. He looked almost
peaceful, but Watson knew that his massive brain would be pouring over
the details of the latest case. It would only be a day or so before he
became restless again.
Sighing, the doctor dropped in the teabags. The calming smell of
brewing tea wafted past his nose, and he breathed deeply. He opened
the fridge to get some milk, and snapped it shut. Gritting his teeth,
he opened it again and retreived the milk. He had not quite gotten
used to coming across Sherlock's "experiments".
Why did he do this? Why was he still living with a high-functioning
sociopath? Why, after nearly 5 months, did he still have a head in the
fridge, a skull on the mantlepiece, and a dead alliagtor in the
bathtub? (Don't ask)
There was the easy answer, that he needed the excitment, the thrill of
the chase. That was true. He loved every bit of it, the gunfire, the
suspence, even the killer goats. That was the answer he told everyone,
including himself.
But.
But.
Was it the whole answer?
The truth leered at him like that blasted skull. Right in front of
him, but he refused to adknowledge it. It wasn't the thrill that he
loved. It was the man.
That man.
Him.
Sherlock.
Sherlock. The one with the skin paler than parchment. The man who kept
him awake with the screechings of the violin until four in the
morning. The fellow who was rumored to be a serial killer in the
offices of Scotland Yard.
Most importantly, the detective who refused to admit his feelings
about people. Ever.
Watson shook himself out of his thoughts and brought the tea into the
main room. Sherlock was sitting up now, on the edge of the couch. He
was twisting and untwisting his long white fingers. Watson found
himself staring at them, entranced. Those hands could strangle a man
or pick up the tiniest hair. They were strong hands. Delicate hands.
Skilled hands.
Watson mentally berated himself. Blame it on the army for putting his
mind constantly in the gutter.
The tea steamed on the table, ignored. A slightly akward silence hung
over the room like a heavy wool blanket. Watson was just getting ready
to call it a night an head up to his room when Sherlock suddenly spoke.
"Stop it."
"Stop what?"
"That thing. There! You did it again."
"What?"
"Licking your lips. You always do it when you're nervous. What's
making you nervous?"
Watson avoided the question. "Why do you care?"
"It's distracting."
"Distracting you from what? Brooding?"
Sherlock ignored him and stared fixedly into space. His greyish eyes
were lined with huge dark circles from lack of sleep. The coat was off
now, carefully folded and lying on a nearby chair. Sherlock took
better care of that coat then he did himself. The top buttons of his
purple shirt were slipping out of their holes. A long pale slash of
neck was visible, taunting him to reach out and stroke it.
Bad Watson. Very bad Watson.
He had to leave, he decided. Before he did anything he would regret.
Standing up, he was surprised to see Sherlock rise as well. "Are you
going to bed?"
Watson was not in the mood to deal with Sherlock's weirdness. "Only if
you come with me." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Shit. That did not come
out the way he meant it to. "I mean, you need rest too, and I won't be
able to sleep if you are blowing stuff up or shooting the wall or
putting yourself in a drug coma. So. Yeah." His sentence trailed off.
"As you wish." replied Sherlock with an almost smile. Still neither of
them moved. They were very close now. Watson could just reach out and
touch...
He noticed Sherlock was staring at him. At his mouth. Almost
unconciously, his tounge curled
out and licked his lips. A strange flickered across the detective's
face. There was affection and confusion and caution and want and
hunger. Hunger? Hungry for what? That man didn't eat half enough.
Maybe tommorow they could go to that new Thai place across the street,
or maybe-
Watson's train of thought was abruptly cut off as Sherlock's mouth
collided with his. It all made sense now, but he didn't care, because
all that mattered now was him and his thin silk shirt and the smell of
coffee and gunpowder and one hand on the small of his back and one
running through his thick black hair-
Suddenly, there was a very unmanly shriek from the doorway followed by
"OH MY FUCKING GOD!"
The two leapt away from each other as if burned.
"ANDERSON!" roared Holmes. Watson had never seen his flatmate
(Friend? Boyfriend?) so angry, or Anderson move so quickly. Sherlock
strode to the door and slammed it in the faces of an astonished
Lestrade and Ms. Hudson. "Now, where were we?" he growled to Watson
before launching himself into another kiss.
A few miles away, a portly man flicked off a monitor. The security
cameras were an unfortunate necessity, but his brother deserved a
moment of privacy.