Loud and Proud

By: TheSheepSpeak

-Disclaimer-: BBC Sherlock doesn't belong to me and never will. I do not claim these rights and am not profiting.

Rated: T atm for slight curses and sexual innuendos.

The answer was clearly yes. After weeks of various scenarios, complications, and questions that refused to reveal their answers; yes I suppose John did have some . . . Stirrings deep deep, way deep, down in his gut. These feelings, no hardly even feelings per say, more along the line of stirrings, yes he liked to think of it as that, may point to him having a certain specific-not-exactly-classified; thing for a certain someone. Oh he could hardly call the man certain, he was mostly uncertain as a matter of fact. Nothing short of ingenious.

It didn't matter! John Watson was sure of it now. He had growing attractions to his flat mate, Sherlock Holmes.

"Do you recall Darwin's thoughts on music John?" Sherlock spoke up after being completely inert and mute the past hour or so as he was manipulating the violin he held and plucked oh so delicately, in his arms with his pale limb forefingers. He looked at John from across their living space, his thin lanky frame draped upon his chair of choice, long ways with his feet dangling over the arm rest. His head hung over to lay on the opposite and his curious sharp eyes searched over John for some sort of recognition to what he asked.

"Does this have to do with the murdered Boots at the Laurion?" John shifted in his own cushioned seat that sat practically adjacent. He looked over the morning paper to meet his gaze. "If so," he looked back to the recently deceased portion of the paper as he planned to silently pay his respects to those he recognized from previous murder investigations, "I don't see how it has to do with Daniel Sastry." For, it very well could have been relevant due to Sherlock always had enigmatic ways.

John spoke of the case they had been in the middle of overseeing just the previous morning. A man working at the Laurion Inn down the road from Camberwell Street, a mister Daniel Sastry, was found dead. He had been a Boots of sorts for the Inn for a total of three days, poor man had years ahead of him and according to Sherlock had planned to marry. John was surprised that his usual obsessive friend, lay thinking of music at a time he normally thought of the case at hand. Must mean he solved it already. That's completely common, as to his secrecy and discretion as if it obvious to everyone he have no need to mention.

Which seemed the case as he drawled out a bored, "Nooo, our bell boy was killed by his mistress, Mrs. Annabelle. The woman we met in the lobby yesterday evening," he closed his eyes and plucked a few strings at random, "I was referring to Darwin on a different notion, not to say he were the magnum opus of his time." His eyes flicked open and he pointed the bow of his instrument in John's direction for emphasis as he added, "which he wasn't."

John felt the need to add he had no idea what his friend spoke of, but he just resulted to rolling his eyes hiding behind his paper again.

"Darwin claims that the power of producing and appreciating music existed among the human race long before the power of speech. Perhaps that is why we are so subtly influenced by it." Sherlock pondered on his statement for a few seconds, looking as if to add on it, before he rose from his chair with such an unexpected paroxysm that John had crunched his paper while looking over at him.

With him standing you could really tell of his features better than him being cramped in a leather chair. To say he was tall and skinny was maybe an exaggeration, John felt his lanky attributes added to the illusion of his height. Such as his long arms and skinny restless legs. Although overall he was intimidating to a full determination of sorts. His strong gaze and almost mechanical and highly logical brain function was obviously laid out within seconds of meeting him, for, he almost on all occasions demonstrated this attribute. In other words a show off.

"Do you plan to inform someone of our murderess?" He asked him, seeing as he looked deep in thought of something suddenly, for he stopped moving every muscle and stood in the middle of the room.

At the question Sherlock flinched, almost looked disturbed, "I texted Lestrade the details concerning, earlier, I don't plan on letting her murder again John." He then set his instrument down on the cluttered table and wrapped his dark tinted night gown around himself further, "I think I'll go out today."

He sounded as if talking to himself, now gazing out the flats second story window into Baker Street. "Anywhere interesting?" John muttered, folding the paper in his hands and grabbing his cup of coffee.

"Hmm, I doubt it."

John stood with his now, almost empty cup, and planned to head to the kitchen when he was intercepted by his friend suddenly, "Need proper clothing I gather," John joked, cracking a smirk. Sherlock stood in front of him, in the entry way to the kitchen, leaning smugly on the frame.

"You as well if you plan on joining me?" He now flicked his blue eyes over him, making John's stomach flip in self-consciousness. He looked down at himself and took a step back as to put a larger distance between the two of them.

He had put on a thicker jumper for the chilly morning, dark grey almost sweater material. A little itchy if not for the extra layer underneath. He pulled down on it, "Suppose so." He cleared his throat looking back at Sherlock in question, "Where to then?"

Sherlock let him pass, now looking at something on the ceiling, "I have no tolerance for another sit in at the flat for takeout, unless you're going out for fresh produce," he eyed John for mere seconds and concluding that wasn't going to happen he continued, "I say we should go out for lunch."

"We go out a lot if you think about it." John ran the water to rinse his cup out.

Sherlock groaned, "I'm at a loss for what to sustain us with then! If you would rather go to the library with me I'm considering it being the highlight of my day."

"Uh, no. Last time I accompanied you there you spent an hour in the kids section staring at the children's books, only to spend another two fixing the little play toys." He dried his cup off with a rag, "you remember the one with the colorful shapes you had to cross the table on wires. Don't look at me as if you don't," he laughed despite himself remembering his friend's frustration on the simple thing. "I would like to remind you of your overdue books however."

Sherlock turned to leave for his room, "How do you feel of Italian?" With that John didn't get another word in and smiled as he parted his own way up the stairs to his bedroom for a shower and change of clothes. There usually wasn't a chance on arguing with an uncertain Sherlock Holmes.

Which after a half hour or so filled with a hot shower and a change of clothes, he had headed down back to the main living area to tend to extinguish the fire radiating in the fireplace. This is when he was strangely reminded of something. John was brought back to the stirrings he held dominate and thought back on when he had come to suddenly face them. It had been about a month ago, he thought of this moment often nowadays to be honest, and him and Sherlock Holmes were, to put simply, breaking the law. They had come to the living place of a one, Andrew Ginny and found him un-occupying it at that moment so they had broken in. For, Sherlock is handy with lock picking. He's seen it on a number of instances. This particular search was for a murder weapon, a wrench, and yes that's a common household item, however Sherlock was convinced this particular wrench had one of its prongs missing. The other end or the other side of the clasp, due to a loose bolt.

Anyhow, they couldn't have been prepared for what happened when Andrew came home. So, naturally John was shoved into an old wardrobe dresser that held the man's dressings. So much so that the both of them stuffed inside concluded in them being very close together. Which in turn made John's heart jump around and his palms sweaty and at that very moment with Sherlock shushing him and his face so close in a dark and adrenaline pumping moment, John knew he liked this man as more of a friend. And damn him for it because of all the bloody men in London he involuntarily chose the one who he couldn't hide it from.

Which he has done so very skillfully in the past when liking a roommate, or, at one point a bunk buddy in Afghan. Still, John was a little past worried Sherlock knew. However, his friend was anything but oblivious to feelings and matters such as these. If he did know, John couldn't tell so far and he planned on keeping it that way, along with his these stirrings staying exactly what they were, . . . Just stirrings. John had no chance with this man and he damn well knew it from the start. No one did, that's what made Sherlock Holmes so different. Maybe so alluring.

"Mrs. Hudson is overdue for a visit." Sherlock had muttered beside him, almost startling John out of his embarrassing thoughts. He set the fire stick aside and looked over at him with a tight smile, "It's only been a few hours since we woke."

"Yes," he set his right hand under his chin, "doesn't normally take her past ten to drop in uninvited."

"Oh you can't say you don't enjoy her company once in a while Sherlock," John scolded, "don't be cruel to the woman's kindness. She means well of course."

"Of course." He muttered back under his breath before heading to the kitchen for whatever reason. He now wore a cream colored buttoned shirt underneath his, as we speak being buttoned, black blazer jacket. This matched his normal attire black trousers that were, in John's opinion, supposed for formal wear. Yet, another strange thing about Sherlock is his wardrobe and his need to overdress. Although that iconic wool jacket of his leveled it out regardless.

He swept back into the living space with a hand through his damp hair, having taken a shower himself, and carrying a small brown paper bag rolled tightly and clasped by his other hand. John eyed it as they came to the stairs, "What's that there?"

"A way of greeting." He had said sharply and intended for John to not say more. Which he got the hint and just followed him down the second pair of stairs, where they coincidently ran into their lovely landlady Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh! Boys you seem in a rush of sorts to be somewhere this morning?" She smoothed out her flower patterned dress with a polite greeting smile on her face.

"Good morning, we are just off for a bite," John said as he tucked his arms in his jacket, now wearing a thinner shirt helped get through.

"I have some fresh bread I meant to send up an hour ago, do hope I haven't starved you boys," she plainly joked, for, she wasn't their housekeeper. Bringing bread would have been a lovely surprise.

"Maybe for supper," John mentioned with a smile on his lips, "and maybe a cuppa, for we've run out it seems," he zipped his coat.

Sherlock finished his layers for the slight chill outside of the new season change that was in order soon, and he nodded to Mrs. Hudson as an acknowledgement of sorts before opening the door to rush John along. He did look in a hurry for whatever reason.

"Yes of course," John had said once Mrs. Hudson confirmed she wasn't going to make a habit of keeping warm tea made for their returns, which John figured she wouldn't say no if asked. He never means to imply the old woman's aid them as such with cleaning and cooking, but he loved her like an aunt and couldn't bear not owing her something for it.

They rushed out into the chilled flurry air, it was past Christmas and New Year, and although those were some remarkable events, he was glad they were over. Even if Moriarty still prowled the streets. No, it was still chilly at end of March, having just run the Baskerville case in the beginning of the month, afterwards has been a little boring with smaller cases. He missed that case, it was indeed interesting and although sad, John liked being away from London for a while.

Sherlock hailed a cab quickly and they were snugged inside when John was curious, "We headed to the place near Northunberland Street again?"

"No,"

"Why not the one from before?" John looked out the window to the busy streets of London passing in a whirl.

Sherlock had maneuvered his head to do the same out the opposite window, "No reason." He quipped out secretively.

"Has to do with the bag?" John guessed, now making a conscious effort to look in his direction. Seeing him tighten his grip on it seemed to suggest he was right.

Sherlock didn't answer directly, "And what of last night?"

"Uh, pardon?" John cleared his throat.

"Either a lamp left on most of the night or you were up. Second most likely you're very diligent when it comes to small things as lights on."

"Oh, well. Yes, I was up on the phone with Harry."

"I didn't recall hearing voices; you kept a four hour conversation through texts?" Sherlock mumbled oh so indiscreetly, "Especially to a sister you're not so close to?"

John shifted again, "Yeah, texted her. Uh, why so curious as to what I do at night?"

"Just a conversation starter, oh, look we're here." He didn't hesitate to grab the door handle and not even wait for the cab to be at a complete stop before bounding out. This made John feel obliged to pay the taxi driver, who in turn smiled awkwardly at him as if hearing their former conversation. John then felt a little embarrassed for some reason, for he had been talking to Harry, only he was talking about Sherlock and his, . . . Well yes you know by now.

He practically skid a knee up the cobblestone steps into the small restaurant catching up with his flat mate. Who, as he came to realize, was nowhere when he got through the double doors, which read in fancy script, 'Belle-chi'. John took the small time to think of that being a French and Latin combination.

Whatever was the reason for inviting him if just to elude him in the end?

Oh yes, he felt this some sort of warning to never pursue the stir in his abdomen, he would more than likely be left behind.

However, his sister Harry had insisted, rather loudly, he go after Sherlock Holmes with every intention of taking him regardless of John's insecurities.

Thing is, he wasn't sure yet of what needed be done, and down the road this flutter would pass as it had done in other occasions. However, this was Sherlock Holmes. This was his newly found best friend.

Shouldn't he deserve to know? Maybe Harry was right . . .?

-TBC-

If you enjoy this so far please feel free to review. I appreciate every sort of comment~

As for updates-I will let this first chapter sit until I can get a few more done. This is my second fan-fiction I've ever wrote and I've learned to not write a chapter and immediately post it, for I get a little lost on the overall picture. Nothing ridiculous as months before updates, I wouldn't do that to you.

Thanks for reading, please remember to review your thoughts.