My first time to write about Sherlock and Watson. It's based on BBC's production and there will be some spoilers from all three aired episodes. No smut, just pure and fluffy waffiness.
I do not own Sherlock and thus I am not making any money or profit from writing this. It's pure pleasure.
I can only hope that don't fuck up my story as I post this… it seems that no matter how I turn the stories always turns out to be fucked up – all my cursives and things just disappears, annoying but I really don't know how to walk about it. So here it comes however it may turn up.
Nothing happens to me!
'Nothing happens to me…,' that had been the thing John Watson told his therapist. He was a washed out and crippled war veteran. A doctor yes, but washed out. The cane told everyone that saw him just that. But that had been before he met Sherlock Holmes. According to the good doctor Watson, the man was the most charismatic arse this world had ever seen.
But then again, Sherlock Holmes had proclaimed himself to be a domesticated sociopath.
Nevertheless, Watson had to admit he couldn't be without his flat mate. It didn't matter that Holmes was frustrating beyond words and could drive John insane if he continued to hang around the world's only consulting detective.
But the action that always happened around Holmes was nothing Watson would want to be without. He loved the action, the adrenaline rushes, and the tension, all of it. He was addicted to all of it.
But it was after the case file Watson had dubbed "The Great Game", that things began to start being awkward to say the least. The first few months he never thought about it. New cases came and went as they were solved by Sherlock. But for each case there was always something, never anything big or drew attention to it. Not until the day John realized that it began to occur more frequently.
John sat back in his chair at Angelo's small restaurant and thought back to the day that had opened his eyes for this new development. It had happened just two days ago.
Sherlock and John were at Lestrade's office at the Yard. Sherlock has just ended his tirade of how a man had been murdered. He then looked at John and put his hand on John's shoulder.
"And it was this man that put me on the trail of the man's killer. John here saw that tiny little speck of dried weed in the man's mouth. But the thing wasn't weed, it was Digitalis purpurea, a medicinal herb, but very poisonous if taken in large doses. The man died of a heart attack."
Now when you look back at it, there wasn't anything strange, Sherlock often touched John in this manner. But it was the thing that happened as Sherlock was moving his hand away. Instead of removing his hand immediately, he let it brush lightly down John's back before he removed it completely.
It was so subtle and yet it was as if the world around Watson was shaking. But a quick look at his flat mate and he looked as he did any other day. Had Watson imagined it all? But if so, why would imagine such a thing?
"W-well, our forensics hasn't done the autopsy yet, I am sure they would have noticed if there were any poison in the man's body," Lestrade had said and John looked at the D.I.
But it was obvious that Lestrade hadn't seen how Sherlock's hand had moved down his back in a brushing almost caressing movement.
But that had been the start of it all. And the more John thought back on things after The Great Game, the more he came to realize. Sherlock had become a very "touchy and feely" about him. There were often he put his hand on John's shoulder, patted him on the back when John got the thought trail of his partner. And the brushing down his back that day had not been the last thing, far from it. For John it had been the start of a lot of groping to say the least.
John sighed and waved at Angelo and the robust older man came with a big smile on his face.
"So where's your date tonight Dr. Watson?" asked Angelo as he lit the candle in the glass on the table.
John inwardly groaned. The man had been on about the date-thing from the first time he met him. He had been sure that John and Sherlock was an item. John had stopped trying to correct the man but that didn't mean he had to like it.
"I really wouldn't know Angelo. Can I please have a pint or must I go to a real pub?" John asked as he looked sternly at the owner.
Angelo just laughed heartily and left and came back two minutes later with a large pint of beer. John nodded thankfully and took a swipe at it. It tasted heavenly at this point. He didn't like alcohol and no wonder considering that his sister was an alcoholic. But every now and then he enjoyed a pint. Especially when he needed to relax and think.
Watson let out a hush of air as he closed his eyes. God, this was difficult. Was he reading too much into things that actually weren't there? Sherlock had grabbed his head when he wanted John to remember the Chinese scribble on the wall. But that was nothing, nothing to what his dear flat mate was doing now.
Just this morning as John moved around all kinds of experiments in the kitchen, trying to get himself a decent cup of tea, Sherlock had come up to him and ruffled around his morning hair-do. I mean, what kind of man does that to another man? But when John turned around to confront the detective he saw him disappear, his dark blue bathrobe fluttering behind him.
Another swipe at the beer and John felt as if he gotten nowhere. What the hell was all the touching about? If John didn't know any better he would think it was Sherlock's way to ensure himself that John was there.
Watson scratched his head as he tried to find the moment when Sherlock first started his new quirk. It was after the pool-incident where John had been strapped to an explosive vest. The way Holmes had ripped the jacket and the vest off him in a hurry. The look he gave Watson, silently asking for admission, permission to do something.
'And I agreed, without a second thought, no remorse at all,' thought John as he closed his eyes and remembered the moment. He remembered how his body had poised, getting ready for action. Adrenaline pumping in his veins, he could almost hear the rush in his ears. The shot had rung off and John sprung forward, his body pushing into Sherlock's tall frame, effectively taking them both into the water. mission to do something. blue bathrobe fluttering behind him. , Sherl
The blow had temporarily put him unconscious, and John awoke to have Sherlock's arms wrapped around him as the detective pulled him towards the edge of the pool. Smoke and dust hurting his lungs. And Sherlock's voice whispering desperately in his ear, begging him to be alright.
John's eyes shot open as he remembered Holmes voice that night. So soft and tender it had been. Filled with emotions that it had brought John out of the dark haze where his mind had been after the blow. And now things started to make sense in Watson's eyes.
The touching, it always occurred when they had been in trouble, where there was danger just around the corner. After an especially dangerous case. It was as if Sherlock really wanted to make sure that John was safe, that he was there and wouldn't leave him.
'So that's it,' John thought and smiled softly as it all came together. 'He's afraid that I would leave him or that I might get hurt.' He gulped down the last of his beer and laughed a bit to himself.
"Fancy another one doctor?" asked Angelo. "And you surely looks happy? Got anything to do with your boyfriend?"
"For the last time he's not my boyfriend!" growled John and shook his head no. One beer was enough and now he knew the reason for his flat mate's strange behavior. He put some money on the table and rose to his feet. "Thanks Angelo and good bye for now."
"Tell Sherlock I said hi," Angelo called after him.
John nodded and exited the small restaurant and went towards 221b Baker Street.
Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. He had invented the job. He was a self proclaimed sociopath and always got on peoples nerves. Always getting told to piss off. But there was one person who hadn't told him to go screw himself. Actually that person told him he was an idiot. Sherlock laughed and took his violin and picked at the strings.
John Holmes, war veteran and a doctor. A very good doctor from what he learned. And a man that became Sherlock's closest friend and ally and of course, not to forget – flat mate. A man that snaked his way into Holmes heart faster than a speeding bullet.
The dear doctor had saved Sherlock's life more than once. He even killed a man on their first case together. Even before John had moved into the flat on Baker Street. Sherlock could still hear the conversation in his head as he lay there on the sofa waiting for the same man to come home.
'Are you alright?' Sherlock had asked.
'Of course I am alright. Why wouldn't I be alright?' John answered.
'You just shot a man.'
"Hrm, yes… but he wasn't a very nice man. Actually he was a bloody awful cabbie!'
Yes, Sherlock remembered that night vividly. This man had rocked his world that night and it had felt wonderful. He realized that life with Watson would never be boring.
Sherlock had been to the Scotland Yard this day, looking over new cases but couldn't find anything interesting. After the incident with Moriarty the Yard had been more open in asking him in on cases, actually letting him choose cases that were interesting to him. He liked that.
But when Holmes got home the flat was empty. No Watson in sight. He texted his flat mate but got no reply. It was then the nagging ache in his stomach started. He hated not knowing where Watson was. He needed the good doctor like he needed to breathe although he still argued that breathing is boring.
'Watson, where are you?' he wondered and plinked away on his violin. He knew he probably was driving mrs. Hudson mad with it. But he really couldn't care at this point. His doctor was missing and he felt the fear grip around his heart.
Sherlock wasn't new to the phenomenon known as love. He had seen his fair share of crimes of passion and knew that the emotion could spark violence beyond words. But he had never thought he would experience it first handedly. It had taken a bomb-vest strapped to his friend's body to make him realize that he was in love with his flat mate.
Holmes sighed and leaned his head over the edge of the sofa and looked up into the ceiling. Gods, that night, it was still burning in his memory.
First there had been confusing has he saw Watson step up in front of him at the pool, talking as if he was Moriarty and then the horror. The horror as Watson opened the thick winter jacket to reveal the bombs strapped around his chest.
Sherlock had been sure that his heart stopped for a few seconds and then started to beat with drum like beats. And then there had been the laser tag, making Sherlock's heart stop once again.
Moriarty's appearance, well he had been surprised that it had been Jim, Molly's so called boyfriend at Bart's. The man with the infuriating annoying voice. Gods, he wanted to rip the man's vocal box out of his throat.
The man had threatened to burn Sherlock's heart out of his body. And he nearly did and for that he had to kill him. Nobody would ever do that to his heart ever again.
The detective sighed and rose up from the sofa. He put the violin on the small table and then he dragged his fingers through dark tresses of hair. The look John had given him that night had cemented the feelings that had started to grow inside Sherlock. The small nod of confirmation as he raised the gun towards the explosives. The laser tags fluttering against them both. But the small nod said that Watson was alright with Sherlock's decision.
The decision to take out a murderer. Even if they were killed themselves, they would save a lot more people from getting hurt. At least from this maniac. So he looked at John and saw the small nod. The look in John's blue grey eyes said he was ready.
So Sherlock had raised the gun and fired the shot.
Again had his good doctor surprised him. Afterwards it was quite obvious that Watson had a great survivor will. The rough push against Sherlock's body had propelled them into the pool as the world around them exploded.
As Sherlock fought to get to the surface of the water he could see John lay still next to him. Holmes dragged John up and felt his heart stop once again. He put his arms around John's chest and as the flames roared around them he swam towards the edge. He held John close to his body. He whispered in John's ears.
'Don't you dare die on me John! I refuse to let you die! Come on Watson, come on, I need you. I must have you with me, do you understand you damn doctor!'
Gods, the relief flooded him when Watson finally opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. He was sure he cried then but the water in his face hid his tears of relief.
After the case with The Great Game, Sherlock snickered as he thought of the name, he had felt the need to touch John, just to make sure that the good doctor was with him, unharmed and safe. That John was alright and with him. At first he wasn't sure to why he needed to feel John, but as the days progressed it became quite obvious for the detective. He was master deducer after all.
Sherlock Holmes was utterly in love with the doctor. And when in love you have the need to feel the person you are in love with and thus the touching came into the picture. At first Watson was oblivious to it all. He didn't act different around Holmes.
But two days ago in Lestrade's office, that had changed. Holmes had not meant it to happen as it did. He only wanted to point out that it had been John that had found that little dried piece of herb in the man's mouth. Digitalis purpurea, a very poisonous herb. The poor man had flat lined and died from a heart attack. Given in small doses it could do well for heart conditions, but in larger doses it would make you heart flutter and then stop.
But as he was about to remove his hand he let it brush down John's back before pulling back. He saw from the corner of his eye how his friend stiffen and look at him as if he was imagining things. Sherlock had tried to concentrate to continue to talk to Lestrade.
And he had done something stupid again this morning. Again he had not been able to stop himself from doing it. He had seen John move around in their kitchen as he tried to find a tea kettle, some tea and a cup. He had looked so adorable and domestic that Sherlock had walked up behind him, ruffled his sandy blond hair and before John could have said anything, Holmes fled back to his room. He silently cursed himself for his actions. He had probably scared the bloody heck out of his flat mate.
Sherlock looked at his right hand, the hand that had touched that tousled hair. It had felt soft. Softer than he thought it would. When he finally stopped cursing himself and came out from his room, John was gone.
Gone… and he had yet to come back.
"BOLLOCKS!" Sherlock shouted and rose to his feet and began to wander around the room. His doctor was gone and he had no idea where John was.
He heard footsteps in the stairs and he knew he had upset mrs. Hudson. He sighed and dragged his fingers through his hair again and waited for her to come into the room.
"Sherlock?" she asked as she watched the agitated detective.
"I'm sorry mrs. Hudson, I didn't mean to alarm you," Sherlock said with an apoplectic smile.
"It's quite alright dear. But what are you wandering on about? It's been awhile since I say you this… this nervous. Have something happened?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"Nothing for you to worry about. I am just…. I don't know where Watson is off to," Sherlock sighed and slumped down on the sofa again.
"Oh dear, having a bit of a domestic have we?" Mrs. Hudson smiled softly and sat down on the chair next to the sofa. "Did you have a spat with dear John?"
Holmes growled and tried to silence her with his stern face, but this was mrs. Hudson, she was not going to fall for that. So he gave up and put his hand over his eyes.
"I think I might have scared him off," Sherlock finally admitted.
"Scared him off? What on earth do you mean Sherlock?"
Sherlock grunted. He really wasn't comfortable talking about his feelings. He had been told by others and he even told himself that he was above all that… and yet here he lay, his heart aching horrible because he had no idea to where Watson was.
Mrs. Hudson put on her resolve face and she grabbed hold of Sherlock's wrist, forcing him to look at her.
"What did you do to our dear John?" she asked.
"I touched him," Sherlock bit out tersely.
"You did what?"
"I touched him Mrs. Hudson." Then he saw her clear blue eyes hardened and he realized that she misunderstood him. "No, nothing like that… I just… well, the other day.. at the Yard.. I put my hand on his shoulder and brushed down his back… and this morning, I ruffled his hair."
Mrs. Hudson gaped at first and then she began to laugh.
"My dear little Sherlock. You are really in for it this time aren't you?" she chuckled and went about to hug the frustrated detective. "Don't you worry love, I am sure John will come home soon and you both can sort this up."
Sherlock grunted again as the old woman hugged him. But again, he could not intimidate her. So he let her hug him until she let decided it was enough. She patted him on his head, making him feel as if he was a school boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar.
"You and John make such a nice couple. I hope you will invite me to the wedding!" she chirped like a bird before leaving to go downstairs again.
Sherlock mouth gaped open and then he flew up from the sofa.
Wedding? Dear Lord, the woman was insane!
"Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled down the stairs but all he got back was a soft giggle from the old land-lady.
The walk had seem too gone all too fast for John's liking. He looked at the black door with the golden number 221B. He felt the need to bang his head on the wall next to the door but he knew he had to face his flat mate sooner or later. He would rather prefer later, but he was here now and no doubt had his very observant detective already noticed his home coming. If Sherlock was home that was. Perhaps he was down and pestering the Yard with his infernal rantings and deductions.
Watson smiled a bit at that and swallowed hard. Time to face the reality. He opened the door and went inside. He put his jacked in the closet and listened carefully for any sounds coming from the upstairs, but it was eerily silent. Well, at least there was no wailing from the violin which would have been a sure sign of an agitated Sherlock. And there were no shooting either, so there was no bored Sherlock.
No, it was all silent. John stepped on the first staircase and it creaked. In John's ear it was like a gunshot echoing through the apartment. He silently cursed and tried to tell himself that he was silly. This was his home, he was a grown man and he had no reason sneaking about. So he hurried upstairs. No Sherlock in the living room or the kitchen. As Watson scanned the rooms he didn't notice any new experiments or holes in the wall.
'That's a relief, Mrs. Hudson would have his head if he was shooting at her wall again.' he thought and went up to the where the two bedroom was. Sherlock's door was closed and John swallowed hard and knocked on it. No answer.
John knocked again but with the same result.
'So he has gone out,' he summarized and turned to open his own bedroom door. He went inside and closed the door behind him. He leaned back against it and he drew a deep sigh. One part of him was relieved that Sherlock was not at home. But a bigger part of him was not very happy at all. He had hoped that he would solve whatever this was with the touching thing with Sherlock this evening. Now when he knew what it was all about he wanted to reassure Sherlock that he wasn't going anywhere, that he would be with Sherlock no matter what happened.
Watson looked around the room and suddenly he realized that it didn't look quite the same as when he had left this morning. For one thing, his bed was rustled as if someone had been laying on it. And Watson was sure he had made it in military fashion standard before leaving. And the other thing, which was by the way a little bit more disturbing, was that his laundry basket was thrown out on the floor. Dirty laundry lay about in the corner where the basket usually stood.
John frowned because who on earth would go through a person's dirty laundry? And I do mean real dirty laundry. He walked over and raked together the clothes and put them back in his basket and he noticed that one of his woolen sweaters was missing. He knew that he had put in the basket yesterday but now it was gone. He looked around the room but it was nowhere to be found.
Ok, Watson admitted it. He was utterly confused. He didn't see anything else that was missing. It was just that one sweater. It was confusing. And irritating. He really loved that sweater. He used it as often as he could. He had worn that sweater when he had been kidnapped by that funky maniac Moriarty. It had been a bit torn in the explosion but Mrs. Hudson had been a magician and almost magically managed to sew it back to look almost as it had before the incident.
Watson snorted and then he sighed. Well, he didn't have the energy to care about it now. He would tell Sherlock about it. He really didn't fancy the thought of a stranger snooping around in their flat. And if someone was able to figure out who it was, it was Sherlock. But that would have to wait since Sherlock was not home right now.
John lay face down on his bed, his head buried in his pillow. He wanted this day to be over now. His mind was overloaded with information and tension and he just wanted to sleep. He breathed in deeply and his nose got a huge whiff of a smell that didn't belong to John. He raised his head and smelled his pillow more carefully.
Yes, there was a smell that wasn't from any of the products that Watson used.
"What the bloody bollocks is going on here?" he mumbled to himself as he tried to identify the smell. It was familiar. His mind screamed at him that he knew that smell very well but since his head was overloaded he couldn't put his finger on to whom it could belong.
But when the door downstairs suddenly was opened and shut he stopped thinking about it and rushed out of his room and down the stairs to the living room, hoping to find Sherlock.
John stopped dead in his track as he saw the detective slump down on the sofa. Not a strange sight at all. But what was odd about it was the thing that Sherlock held to his face.
It was John's woolen sweater. The one that was missing from his laundry basket.
And it was now his mind got through and shouted that it had been Sherlock's smell on his pillow.
Watson blanched and suddenly his legs felt like they were made out of jelly. He stumbled forward, making Sherlock snap out of what ever thought he was having with his face down John's shirt.
"What the bloody hell are you doing Holmes?" John managed to choke out.
After the little "talk" with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock had grown too impatient. He really missed John. He missed the doctor's voice. But most of all, he missed John's smell. He missed it so much that he in the end had given into a thought that popped into his head moments earlier.
He went to John's room. He opened the door and ventured inside. It was neat and clean. He knew that Watson's military training had made him a bit of a neat freak. But it didn't bother Sherlock. Not so much anyway. He saw the laundry bin in the corner and underneath the first layers of clothes was the sweater that Watson had worn the night at the pool. The sweater that he had worn as the world blew into pieces around them.
Sherlock had wanted to throw the blasted thing away because it always reminded him of how close it had been from him to lose the only thing that mattered to him. But Watson said it had been a gift from his mother so he got Mrs. Hudson to mend it for him. But right now he was glad it was in the bin. It meant that it would have Watson's smell all over it.
Holmes grabbed the sweater and in the process he managed to spill the rest of the bin on the floor. He ignored that. He lifted up the sweater and looked at it. He had to agree with John – Mrs. Hudson had worked a miracle with it. It almost looked new. He buried his face in it and breathed in. The smell of John filled his nostrils and he sighed in temporary bliss. He walked over to the bed with the thing tightly pressed to his face. He lied down and let the scent of sandalwood and clean soap and that distinctive smell that was just John Watson invade his mind and body.
But in the end it was not enough. So Sherlock got up, forgetting about the clothes on the floor and went to his room to get changed. But he did bring the woolen sweater with him. He wanted to have it close now when John wasn't around.
Once he had a change of clothes, he went out. He went out to search for his doctor. He had the sweater in his hand, taking a whiff of it every now and then when he was sure that nobody could see him. Not that he really cared, most thought him to be a freak anyway. But he had some sense of self respect so he held back to go around with the sweater tied to his face.
He walked around for a couple of hours until he came to Angelo's place. It had closed down for the evening and Sherlock turned around and walked back to Baker Street.
He was so lost in thought as he went upstairs that he didn't see the jacket hanging in the closet. He went to the living room and sat down on the sofa, the sweater now back against his nose. He breathed in that soothing scent and sighed.
"What the bloody hell are you doing Holmes?" The voice of an upset Watson jerked Sherlock out of his own little world and he looked up and saw John stand there looking at him with wide blue grey eyes.
'Ooops…' was the only thing that popped into Sherlock's head.
John couldn't believe his eyes. Holmes had his face buried in John's sweater and you could clearly hear how the detective breathed in whatever smells that was on that very sweater. If John didn't know any better he would think that Sherlock had some kind of a smell-fetish.
"W-what are you doing with my sweater?" John asked and walked towards the man on the sofa.
At first Sherlock had no idea what to tell the good doctor. But he realized that he had to tell John the truth.
"I missed you," Sherlock said with a low voice and dropped his piercing green gaze at the sweater in his hands. "I missed you and I didn't know where you were."
John fell down on the chair next to the sofa, the very one Mrs. Hudson had occupied a few hours ago.
"Y-you w-what?"
"I missed you John."
"Missed me? And that made you raid my laundry to get my sweater t-to sniff?" asked John hesitantly.
"Mmm, that sums it up pretty good," answered Holmes.
John sighed. This was getting really weird, really fast. He had been so sure that Sherlock's behavior lay with the fact that he was afraid that John would disappear from his life. But now he wasn't sure that was the case at all.
"I am sorry John, but I am really tired." Sherlock said and rose to his feet and before John could react the detective had sought his refuge inside his bedroom.
'And he took my sweater with him,' John groaned and dragged his fingers through sandy hair. 'What the hell is going on here?'
John went upstairs to his bedroom. He could hear Sherlock shuffle around on the other side of the wall. Well, since Sherlock was in this mood there was no trying to reason with him. John would have to wait until the morning to ask him.
John hurried and changed into his pajama-trousers and sat down on the bed. His bed in which Sherlock had been in. The smell of the detective was still vibrant and John turned and put his nose against his pillow and breathed in. And then he jerked up.
'Bollocks, now he has me doing it!' John cursed silently as he fell back his head on the pillow. He tried to ignore the whiffs of Sherlock that invades his nose.
Watson didn't want to admit it, but he had to in the end. To be surrounded with Sherlock's smell was soothing to his overloaded mind. It put him to ease and he closed his eyes. The tension these last few days was getting the better out of the good doctor and it wasn't long before he was off to a sleepy wonderland.
Sherlock knew almost immideatly when John fell asleep. It was as if a blanket of warmth settled in on 221B Baker Street. He rubbed his eyes as he laid down on his own bed. He still had John's sweater in his hands and he put it against his nose. He had been truthful with John.
He had taken John's sweater because it smelled like John and Sherlock had missed John. The smell of the sweater gave him a little bit of Watson, to have close. He had hoped that it would make the absence of the doctor a little bit easier. But in reality it only made things worse. The sweater was nothing compared to the real John.
His John.
He would have to talk to the man in the morning. He could only hope that John wasn't going to break his nose for stealing the good doctor's favorite sweater.
'The man has finally snapped!' John's inner voice shouted as he watched the detective dance around in the kitchen looking for things to make breakfast of. The tea kettle was ready. A tray with two cups, some toasted bread and now there was marmalade and jam next to the toast.
John jerked around when he heard a sound behind him. He saw Mrs. Hudson come up the stairs with a big smile on her gentle face.
"Ohh, John, I am so glad that you two kissed and make up yesterday. I was so worried about dear Sherlock."
You could hear the sound of John's jaw dropping to the floor.
'W-what.. kiss and make up? The woman must have had an aneurysm or something!'
"You shouldn't just leave like that John," Mrs. Hudson continued and slapped John on the arm when the doctor remained silent. "He was so worried about you. He didn't know where you were."
"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called out and looked at her sternly, and again without any result.
"There now Sherlock. Continue make breakfast for your fiancée, I promise you it will make up for anything you two argued about yesterday. Oh and don't forget that I really want to be there for you when you get married!"
"Mrs. Hudson!" growled Sherlock when he saw the color drain from John's face. He hurried and put down the things he had in his hands and rushed over to the doctor.
And just in time because John promptly fainted. Or at least he lost the control to keep himself up. He stuttered incoherently and looked into Sherlock's fierce light green eyes, searching for some kind of answers to this bizarre situation.
"Mrs. Hudson, please leave us. We have much to discuss," Sherlock mumbled as he helped John to the sofa. He gently put the doctor down and went to usher his land-lady down the stairs. He closed the door and went to the kitchen and poured a cup of tea for his friend.
John tried to get any coherent word over his lips but it all came out in gibberish. He stopped trying when he got a cup of tea under his nose and he looked up and saw Sherlock try and smile.
"John, uhm…. Do you have any questions perhaps?" asked Sherlock with his voice low as if he tried to keep it stable.
'Hell yeah! I got tons of questions!' John's inner voice shouted. But he couldn't get a word out. But he nodded. That much he could do.
Sherlock seemed to understand and he sat down next to John and gently moved them both to sit more comfortable in the sofa. He had his eyes on John the whole time. He saw the confusion in John's handsome and gentle face. He lifted his hand and brushed a few strands of unruly hair from John's face. Which in turn made John even more confused.
Holmes drew a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak.
"I will never leave you Sherlock!" John suddenly blurted out and shocked them both. John turned his face away when he felt the blush start to rise on his tanned cheeks.
"I am glad to hear that John," Sherlock said when he got his wits back. "Because I am not sure what I would do without my personal blogger. I would be utterly lost and unhappy."
John's head spun around and he looked at Sherlock again.
"I really missed you yesterday. That much is true. And I went into your room, took your sweater and lay on your bed because it smelled of you. It comforted me a bit. I then went out to search for you and I had the sweater with me so I could at least have that soothing scent with me."
John was certain that he made a perfect impression of looking like a fish out of water as Sherlock told him what had happened yesterday.
"Drink your tea, I am sure you want some before I tell you the rest."
Watson only nodded and sipped the tea. Not the best tea he had, but it was probably because Sherlock wasn't all that at home in the kitchen. Once he gotten a few mouths he looked at Sherlock again.
"Why are you touching me all the time?" asked John as his speech returned to him. "And what was that thing in Lestrade's office… and yesterday morning!"
That quick quirk of lips made John blush again. He really was handsome, his flat mate. And of course that thought brought on another onslaught of blushes.
"Is it bothering you? Do you dislike it?" Sherlock asked instead of answering the questions.
No, not really, John admitted silently to himself. He didn't dislike them at all. But it did confuse the shit out of him.
"No, I don't dislike it… but why? I am confused and I thought I had it all figured out last night, but it seems as if there is more to it."
Sherlock nodded.
"What did you figure out last night?" wondered the detective as he rose to get tea for himself. He also brought the tray with him so he could get John to have some breakfast while they spoke.
"I thought you were afraid that I would leave you. It started right after The Great Game case, right. And I thought you were afraid that I would say I didn't want to be your friend anymore and leave you. You always touched me after we've done something dangerous, I thought you wanted to make sure I was alright." John let the words flow from his lips as he watched Holmes put the breakfast down in front of them on the table before sitting down again next to him.
"All of it is true, but not only for those reasons. I realized something that night in the pool-hall. Do you remember what Moriarty said? He said he would burn the heart out of me. And with you strapped to all those explosives, I knew where my heart was."
John's eyes seemed to be impossible wider when he heard Sherlock say this. And then the words of Mrs. Hudson, she talked about kissing and making up. 'And don't forget weddings too!' the inner voice supplied with a snort.
"I am your heart?" whispered John.
"Yes. And I knew that I always had to have you close, to feel you close. I always need to know that you are safe and not hurt. Because if you are hurt, it burns inside me. It hurts me too," Sherlock said as he put his large hand on John's cheek and gently caressed it with his thumb. He loved to feel the warmth underneath that tanned skin.
"S-Sherlock?"
"Sometimes at night I can hear you through the wall. Those blood awful dreams you have. And I have been so close to rush into your room and grab you in my arms, I want to chase those dreams away from you with a sword. I hate it when I can't be there for you."
John closed his eyes and leaned forward against Sherlock, he could feel Sherlock lean forward too until their foreheads connected.
"I must confess that the thing in Lestrade's office, it was purely accidental. I really didn't mean for it to happen like that. But it seemed as if my body had a will of its own. Just the same was going on yesterday morning. You looked so adorable when you are newly awake that my body moved on its own, and before I knew it, I had tousled you hair. It scared me shitless."
John swallowed and let a small smile over his lips.
"You were afraid that I would despise you…?" he asked as he looked up and now he covered Sherlock's hand with his own.
"Yes, that was what I was afraid of."
"What do you think now Sherlock, master detective?" smiled John.
"I think I was wrong and this will probably be the only time I am glad that I am."
Laughter bubbled up inside Watson and he started to giggle, much like he had after the cab-hunting, he really had to giggle then. Because really, who in their right mind would try and catch up with a cabbie in London?
Sherlock smiled and joined in. He felt the tension leave his body and he looked at his flat mate. At the man he considered to be his heart. Perhaps John was his consciousness too. He needed the man if he wanted to live, to be alive.
The stairs creaked and Sherlock smiles was split into a wolf like grin.
"Mrs. Hudson, stop sneaking about and come in!" the detective called up and saw the door open and in came a blushing land lady. "It's not nice to sneak on your tenants."
"Sorry luvs, but I really wanted to know that you were friends again," said Mrs. Hudson and smiled a bit goofily. "I hate it when you two boys argue. So do I get to see when you two kiss and make up?"
John just groaned and totally missed the mischevious gleam in Sherlock's eyes.
"Certainly Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock proclaimed and put his hands on John's face and pulled the doctor closer and planted a big fat one right no John's lips.
THE END
Perhaps I will continue it someday but I am not sure. I hope you all enjoyed it even if it's not smut.