Just An Experiment
John and Sherlock have always been good friends, but when one night after a particularly rough case goes wrong, can they sort things out? Or will it bring forth the start of something amazing. Rated M for sexual content, slash, flirting and eventual Sherlock/John.
Just a little bit of fluff and slash for you all, hope you enjoy the story, will keep it updated and please reply, it makes me smile J
I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffatt, and Sir ACD.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
John huffed and slammed his paper down on the chair rest.
"Sherlock." He got no reply from the man sitting idly at the kitchen table.
"Sherlock," he repeated. No answer. "SHERLOCK!"
"Oh, what now John," Sherlock said irritably. "Can't you see that I'm busy?"
"Can't you hear your phone? That's the fifth time it's gone off in the space of eleven minutes.
"What's your point?"
"Pick. It Up."
Sherlock sighed and help out his palm limply. John knew this was as much as he was going to get the lazy sod to do, and so wandered over and plonked the phone in his hand. Sherlock unlocked it and stared at the screen. His eyes going wide.
"What is it?" John inquired.
The corners of Sherlock's mouth rose up into an excited grin. "We have a case."
...
John eagerly followed Sherlock as he bent underneath the police tape.
"Oh look, Freak's here," Donavan mused. John shot her a deadly look, and she shut up.
"The local farmer found her. He said he doesn't know how long she's been here, but it's been longer than 12 hours. We've got forensics looking into it and-" Lestrade stopped as Sherlock waved his hand in the air.
"Your forensic team won't find anything," Sherlock's lips twitched into a small smile. "That's why you called me."
"God, you're good. Right, go ahead."
Sherlock examined the crime scene.
It was a woman, in her early thirties. She was found dead in a poppy field outside west London, the local farmer found her an hour ago, but it looks like she has been here for about 15 hours, maybe more. At first glance, one would say suicide, but Sherlock knew better. There is a bullet hole in the right side of her head, suggesting he woman is right handed, however, the gun is not in her hand, instead, is lying by her feet.
"Got anything?" interrupted Lestrade.
"Shut up, would you?" Sherlock replied sarcastically. He continued his deduction.
The gun should be in her right hand, as whenever someone shoots themselves, reflexes cause the hand to clamp down on the gun. The body positioning is wrong; the legs are splayed out, as if the body had been dropped there. If this woman had killed herself, the body would have dropped lifelessly and the legs would be straighter.
Sherlock proceeded to investigate her pockets, and he found what seemed to be a purse. The inside had been emptied, as that remained was a photo of a young girl, eleven or twelve, with her mother and father. The father has been scratched out of the picture slightly, not done by accident; it is directly over his face.
On the flipside of the photo was the words ME AND MY POPPY. It was obviously a woman's hand-writing, slightly curved at the end of every letter, and leaning very clearly to the right, backing up the previously statement of her being right handed.
On further inspection, there were some vague bruises on her arms and neck, showing that she had been dragged and partially strangled before being shot. A random murderer would not 'play about' with his victim. No, this was revenge.
"Ugh, boring," mumbled Sherlock.
"What is it?" John asked.
"It seems that this woman was murdered by her mentally disturbed ex-husband. After he was denied being able to see his daughter, he came after her, and dragged her to somewhere obscure, which explains the bruises on her arms." He pointed to her left arm, just above the elbow. "Once here she was partially strangled, as the bruises on her neck show, and emotionally tortured, which are proven by the mascara lines that can only be caused from crying. Conclusion, this woman was murdered her in a field of poppy's, somehow sickly related to her daughter, and the father tried to make it look like suicide." Sherlock paused for a moment before continuing. "Yet failed miserably. I hope I gave you all the information you needed, Lestrade. Text me if you have a case."
Sherlock turned on his heels onto the main road and hailed a cab, and John was quick to follow him.
"You're outstanding, you know that?" John remarked.
"Well, you have mentioned it once or twice," Sherlock let a little smirk creep across his face.
The cab journey was sat in silence, both of them looking at each other occasionally and nodding. They went round a roundabout and their knees touched briefly, but Sherlock did not pull away, and neither did John. He could feel his cheeks reddening, which was ridiculous. This was Sherlock Holmes. And he was straight.
John sat down on the sofa and heaved a sigh of relief. It had been another successful day and Sherlock was not taking out his bored on the wall anymore. Maybe tonight he would be able to sleep as well.
Sherlock slumped on the other side of the couch and had brought in a cup of tea for John.
"Um, thanks?" John was shocked. Sherlock never made tea, coffee, food, anything at all. Except for an experiment. But Sherlock wasn't running any experiments. His mind froze when Sherlock's knee touched his like it did in the cab.
"I'd like to do something John, if that's okay with you," Sherlock almost whispered.
John just gulped and nodded, worried and excited.
Sherlock then flopped on John's lap and closed his eyes, exhaling deeply. John froze, before relaxing. He didn't know where to put his hands, and so ended up placing one on Sherlock's arm, and one at the top of his head.
That's when it happened. He absent-mindedly began to stroke Sherlock's soft hair, curling it between his fingers. Sherlock didn't flinch or pull away, in fact, he rather enjoyed it.
He opened his eyes and stared at the doctor. His doctor. He rose up onto his elbows and his face was mere inches from Johns. John didn't move. He was transfixed by Sherlock's gaze, and didn't want to pull away. He physically couldn't.
He knew what could happen next, what might happen next, and it excited him. He was getting aroused, more than he should do, which was bad. I AM STRAIGHT! He shouted to himself inside his head. But it wasn't working.
Sherlock moved his head forward slightly and john copied him. The tension in the room was almost painful in its presence. Sherlock's hand was grabbing John's, while the other snaked up his side to the nape of his next. Sherlock pulled down slightly and smiled, tickling the back of John's neck. John gulped again, his throat unbelievably dry. He smiled back weakly.
Sherlock leaned in and John could feel his warm musky breath on his cheek.
He closed his eyes and waited.
Thanks sooo much for reading this. The next chapter will be up soon, please reply and tell me what you think, any criticism will be helpful! Much love xo