"Sherlock," the doctor sight, and a little of panic that was rising inside him for a while already came out of his mouth together with the name of his flatmate – a detective who was now putting him in a difficult, hopeless situation – so it sounded a bit shakily at the end, "don't – don't do this."
The flatmate – as always – listened, but did not care (it's simple: when Sherlock Holmes wanted something or was about to do something, he would get it, and he would do it, and he would not give a damn about your objections). "It won't kill you, John," he said in a smooth tone of voice, not stepping a single inch away from his poor friend, the face of his completely calm and unreadable.
Oh god how this irritated John! He was more than well aware that by looking at his face Sherlock could somehow recognize even the tiniest hints of emotions he'd happened to feel. He knew he was almost able to read his mind while he himself couldn't see a bloody thing; most of the time the detective's face was like a mask, cold mask of indifference that he never did remove – only lift it up a little (for certain people of course).
Yet (and especially from such closeness) John sometimes noticed the little sparks of enthusiasm in Sherlock's eyes; all the feelings he had suppressed or managed not to be shown with his facial expression or behaviour he unwillingly (and probably also unknowingly) had plainly visible in them (like a little child who cannot speak yet, but you just know it wants the red lollipop you've got in your hand; you can tell only from its look, only from its eyes).
"Heh, I know that you idiot." Although I doubt it'll make me any stronger.
"So? I can't see a problem in it. As for the practical side I'm quite sure you're doing better than me. Though... you're not exactly a plethora of knowledge I need to obtain. I'm going to make it quick, I give you my word."
"You may give me your house in Sussex. I still say don't do it – bad idea." Slowly John pronounced every syllable so Sherlock could not, by any chance, misheard his words as well as the seriousness of them.
"Baad?" the detective wondered, drawing out the 'a' as he tilted his head slightly forward.
"Yeah. Probably the worst idea that y– Jesus fuck! Stop!" the doctor sort of squeaked and pressed his head to the wall.
There was a quick twitch of Sherlock's eyebrows – a little frown at his friend's sudden nervousness. "Huh?"
"Stop right where you are, Sherlock. You bring those cheekbones closer to my face and I'll bloody kick you you-know-where," he gave a warning with his voice sounding firm again. "And I think there's no need of telling you that now I have the perfect angle to make it terribly painful."
The detective's hips instinctively drew back. Everything else of him, however, remained in the same spot where it was: very hardly a half-step from John Watson.
"And now, if you'll excuse me..." John said with that I-am-already-tired-of-your-shit look only he could make, and waited for Sherlock to step away and let him go (sure he had the ability to shove him aside, but God knows Sherlock's reaction could be any, and dealing with him was the very last thing he would like to do in the morning).
When the detective forthwith realized what was going on in his flatmate's uncomplicated mind, he simply had to stop him from it; he wanted to get the thing over with and there was no time for him to chase the doctor around the flat like a foolish monkey – again.
Why it has to be so complicated? he asked himself, and put his hand on the wall next to John's head, showing him the disapproval of excusing him.
Why there's always something? Why he just can't understand and let him do it? God dammit why people do not cooperate with him?! It would make everything so much easier for everyone. Is it truly that hard? Is it?
He sight and – as he was looming over him – looked down at his flatmate: "I'm not letting you avoid this."
"What?"
"Oh stop. No need to raise your blood pressure."
"You" the doctor said angrily, his lips creating a little 'o' at the end of the word, "not letting me avoid this? What the hell Sherlock? You should be thanking me that I didn't punch you when you'd put forth that magnificent idea. 'I need to do it, John. I wouldn't if I didn't have to. There's no other option. I want to find something out, John. I–'"
"My voice definitely did not sound so fatuous."
"Eh?"
"My voice. I did not speak to you with such a–"
"That's not –" John raised his voice and his left hand convulsively clenched into a fist. But actually he didn't want to shout at Sherlock, so he calmed himself down and finished with an exhalation, "– the point. I'm pretty sure you can find out whatever-it-is with someone else's assistance."
"...Maybe," the detective gave a nod. "Yes. Maybe – maybe I can do that... But with whom?"
"Well, I don't know!" was the doctor's annoyed reply.
Then there was silence for a while as John had actually started to think about it (just for fun), and Sherlock waited for what his friend would come out with as he suddenly seemed so thoughtful.
"Perhaps... Molly...?"
"Ugh."
"What? Molly likes you."
"Precisely."
"And that... that is a bad thing?"
"Of course. She's attracted to me. That is always a problem: the interest of one person appears to be purely scientific while the interest of another person is caused merely by the fact that he or she is being attracted to the other one. It may then be somewhat... difficult for the–"
"Wait. Are you just telling me that you don't want to drag Molly into it, because you don't want to hurt her?"
"Um..."
"You do," the doctor smirked.
The detective pierced him with stern eyes.
But John only watched him with a warm smile upon his face, and then said: "That is nice of you."
And Sherlock's eyes softened for a moment. Then – after those fleeting seconds – he put the mask back down, back to its place, and asked coldly: "Shall we do it then?"
"No!"
"But–"
"No!"
A sound of frustration thrust its way out the detective's throat.
"Sh-Sherlock," John forced himself into a little, nervous smile, "that will not happen. It... It's a thing you simply don't do with someone you're–" he stopped, revising his upcoming words. "...I'll try to put it in a way you'd understand," the doctor said at last, and continued with the listen-to-me-child tone of voice: "you are not supposed to do this kind of things with a person to whom you haven't formed a romantic attachment - or something like that. Well... okay, maybe some people do it, but–"
"John, I am not asking you to marry me. I'm only asking you to kiss me."
The doctor's expression grew almost anguished. "My explanation is totally pointless, isn't it?"
"Well, in this situation, I'd say it is quit p–"
"I haven't even had my breakfast yet, Sherlock," he cut the detective's words with a complaint as he had come to the conclusion that if he won't do so, Sherlock simply won't shut up and let him go any soon. "Am I allowed to have a cup of coffee?"
Sherlock realized that his flatmate was absolutely not about to provide him with that puny favour he asked him for (at least not right now), and so he put the hand back to his side and with a blank expression stepped away at once.
"Thanks."
. . .
Three times, the detective said to himself and kept his eyes fixed on the doctore who – for the third time so far – had licked his lips while eating the poor, almost pitiable breakfast he'd managed to prepare.
It was something he did; it belonged to him and Sherlock liked it – the way John's tongue flickered over his bottom lip. It was... well... kind of lovely. No – wait – not lovely. Nor dainty or charming. It was... specific; one of the things that made John Watson John Watson, a part of his personality – a part of him.
And somehow this was the most favourite part of Sherlock's. He evidently was conscious of the others (John's partiality for sweatshirts, the fact he didn't take sugar in his coffee, his mannerism, that he liked to walk barefoot around their flat, that he controlsed his gun every night, the two-finger tipping, the green-apple shampoo, the unlimited facial expression, the short dressing gown, facepalms...) and they were all important. Well, not as much as that the molecular formula of Trinitrotoluene is C7H5N3O6 and that the string A is tuned to 440 Hz, but they certainly occupied some of the detective's Mind palace.
The doctor finished the toast and took a draught of his coffee, then licked his lips again.
(Four times.)
This time he did it only to remove the coffee from them; those previous three times it was rather without knowing since he was lost in thought (it is a fact that most of people do something they're not fully aware of while they are thinking).
"I bet you've got something better to do than watch me."
The detective cocked his head: "What?"
"I say shouldn't you work on that... music-box case?"
"Music-box case?"
"Fine," John accepted, "Only the case then."
"Well, I am working on it."
"Ah."
Sherlock kept silence for a while, sitting in his armchair in his habitual position, thinking, then getting up at once and putting on his coat. "Are you going with me?" he turned at his flatmate.
"I suppose so,"
At that a quick, contented smile appeared on the detective's mouth.
"Where are we going?"
"You'll see," he replied, and went to his room (for his scarf probably).
"Why am I even asking, right?" John sighed quietly so Sherlock couldn't possibly hear him, and before he would once again get into a cab with him and then be amazed by his extraordinary powers, he went to the kitchen to wash the mug from which he was drinking coffee moments ago.
And as soon as he turned off the water, there stood the detective next to him: blue scarf around his neck, hiding the freckles John knew were there, black coat setting up the fair skin, white shirt hugging his chest (smothering it), and a twinkle in the eyes, revealing his excitement.
"Take a spoon with you."
. . .
"That went good," said the detective as they were walking down a street, leaving the police cars behind.
The doctor could not help but stop and a bit shocked stare at his friend.
"What?" Sherlock wondered, his brows lowered in incomprehension.
"It – went – good?" John repeated. "You've just saved the lives of five people, because you've actually managed to figure out something everyone would say is so impossible that it'd be completely absurd to even think about it; the connection between that parrot and the slowed down cylinder. God, I would never believe," he laughed softly, "that a spoon can be used in such a way." He shook his head and smiled: "You're amazing. I know I maybe say it too much often –" he paused "– I do. But... a bit of regular praise didn't kill anyone yet I guess."
"So did not a kiss," remarked the detective and promptly approached his friend.
John stood still, knowing – hoping – Sherlock would not dare to do something that... that could ruin their friendship. He cleared his throat and looked up at that idiotic genius: "You can't be serious."
"Oh, I am."
"No," he demurred resolutely, "You are not," and with that he pushed Sherlock away – not rudely though, but with enough strength to let him know which direction he should move his legs. He waved a cab and tried not to think about... anything during the right home.
Why for goodness sake would Sherlock want to kiss him? What could he possibly learn from it? Sometimes he really acts like a bloody idiot. Doesn't he get that this simply won't do? And what about himself? What if he– Oh, stop it! John snapped internally.
. . .
Ahoj Chramostová