'We're out of milk,' John sighed as he opened the fridge. He rolled his eyes and tried very hard not to look at the bloody plastic bag filled with what seemed like tongues stuffed in a corner. Honestly, some day one of those body parts used in Sherlock's "experiments" would be the reason of his death.
He turned around and faced the detective, who was sitting on his chair, staring into space as he usually does. John knew he couldn't be thinking about a case; their latest had been solved that morning. Afterwards, of course, Sherlock had curled up on the sofa in his dressing gown, muttering the word "bored" over and over. Occasionally, he would get up and pace the flat, frantically in search for his cigarettes, slumping back into the sofa when John raised his eyebrows and shook his head; 'Can't help, sorry.'
John did not know what he was thinking about, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Sherlock's business was his.
'Buy some,' came the reply, Sherlock's low voice a monotone whisper. 'I'll need some in my next experiment anyway – I am going to use it as a neutraliser – '
John shut his eyes and shook his head. 'Sherlock, whatever you're going to do is fine, as long as I don't have to be involved. I don't want to be involved with your experiments, not ever. Understood?'
Sherlock frowned. 'But the tongues – '
'Too much, Sherlock, too much! Now, I am going to buy that milk and if I find out it's being used to soak bloody tongues in you will have a serious problem!'
Sherlock shrugged. 'Fine,' he murmured.
John nodded, turning on his heel and walking out the flat, coat in hand. 'Will be back in an hour, then.'
Sherlock didn't say anything. Instead, he picked up the thread of his thoughts which he had lost only moments ago, when John had slammed the fridge closed in anger.
John...
He and John had known each other for quite a long time, now. Ever since he had moved in with him, John had joined Sherlock in his work, solving crimes and catching murderers. Sherlock had known he wouldn't be able to resist a life full of danger and smirked at the thought. John was just as mentally twisted as he was.
Not twisted, I'm a high-functioning sociopath, he told himself. A sociopath. Divorce myself from feelings...
Sherlock Holmes was an excellent liar, and he did so frequently. But the only person he could not lie to was himself.
You know you haven't been completely objective when it comes to John Watson. There have been feelings involved, ever since that day
when he shot a serial killer to save your life.
But what kind of feelings?
Ah... Now that is the problem. My own choice in separating myself from social interventions has finally proven to be impractical in certain situations. Sherlock snorted. What did it matter anyway? Feelings were irrelevant, unnecessary – they took up space in the human brain that could be used for other purposes, far more useful purposes. Sherlock shook his head and waved one hand dismissively. He was getting distracted; back to the original point of mystery.
My brilliant brain has finally succumbed to certain feelings. Feelings I can't quite place. Sherlock grunted. Surely he knew enough of ordinary feelings to reach a reasonable conclusion? All the facts. I need to be objective.
Number one; after years of living by myself, managing absolutely fine in that, I finally agreed to a flat share. I met John Watson and I was surprised to find that he wasn't exactly one of those ordinary people... Well, of course he was ordinary by my standards, but
compared to other people, like Mike Stamford, or Anderson –
Ah! There is fact number two. I am defending him! That means that I feel the need to protect him. I cannot say he is as idiotic as Anderson, God help him – and therefore I am defending his abilities. Not only do I protect him from bad influences like Donovan and Anderson, I protect his life as well. Like the time I rescued him from the Black Lotus.
Sherlock shifted in his seat. This was becoming more and more difficult – more memories of John's near-death experiences shot through his mind and an unsettling feeling clouded over him.
Fact number three; the idea of John's death unsettles me. I had been genuinely afraid when those death marks were painted on our windows, or when I saw John strapped to a bomb. The feeling of being unable to help has been more consuming than I ever thought it would be.
What did he have so far? All these facts combined – agreeing to a flatmate after years of living alone, defending said flatmate, and
feeling a suffocating fear at the thought of losing him.
Friendship?
But he already knew that. John and he were friends, close friends, perhaps even best friends.
Fact number four. I have never had friends; I managed just fine on my own during school and university. I always considered "friends" as a holdup. In the end, they always wanted something of you, or they betrayed you, or they just kept you from your work by dragging you to the pub with them. John didn't have real friends in London, either – or anywhere else, really. He'd have gone to them for help, instead of listening to Mike's advice. But now we are friends, two people of whom it had been least expected; an army doctor, invalided home from Afghanistan, suffering from a psychosomatic limp and trust issues, and world's only consulting detective, self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath and cut off from the social world.
Sherlock grinned. He liked the idea of John trusting him. He had trusted him only after knowing him for a few hours, he had killed a man to protect him. Sherlock remembered their conversation afterwards and how John had smiled at him, agreeing to a nice dinner at the Chinese down the road. Sherlock's stomach got a hollow feeling, which set off another string of thoughts in the man's head.
Of course, fact number five – my bodily responses to certain things John does. I've been paying close attention to those moments; for example, there is a particular feeling in my lower abdomen when John smiles, it's a bit... tickling, a light, tickling feeling. And I stare at him more often, I notice more things than I should, things that seemed irrelevant to me before I met him. I notice the deep colour of his eyes and the way his arms sway when he walks. And when he catches me observing him, I feel warmth rising to my face and wave my arm dismissively, saying I am bored and sharpening my deduction skills.
Sherlock frowned in concentration. He was almost there, just a few more crucial facts... He rested his elbows on the armrests of his leather seat and bowed his head, pressing the tips of his fingers to his lips. He refused to get a nicotine patch for this.
Back to emotions, then. The emotions you do know; anger. Have you felt anger in John's presence? Sherlock racked his brain. Yes – yes, he had felt anger at certain points, though not directed at John, not immediately. Like three nights ago; John told me he had a date. I felt my eyes narrow as I frowned, not happy with that statement. After anger and annoyance, confusion took control of me; why was I angry at the thought of John having a date? No, no – that isn't quite true. I was angry at the thought of John having fun with an unknown woman, instead of –
Ah. So that was... Sherlock shook his head. He needed to be absolutely sure about this. All the facts, again; Flatmate, defending, uncomfortable – no, terrified – at the thought of his death, close friend after a friendless life, bodily responses, and, finally, jealousy (mental uneasiness from suspicion or fear of rivalry, unfaithfulness, etc., as in love or aims).
Love.
Sherlock frowned. Could it be that particular emotion he despised most? I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. The most harmful of them all, the most influential, and the hardest to ignore? Sherlock shook his head. He must check this.
Some signs of being in love; wanting to touch the person in question, staring at him, blushing, possessiveness, thinking about him at random, inexplicable moments, feeling protective of him, fear at the thought of losing him... Damn. It was all there.
Sherlock shut his eyes and frowned. He was in love with John – I am in love with John Watson. Confusion mixed with relief rolled over him. Relief because he finally figured out what was wrong with him – confusion because he had not felt this emotion before, for anyone; he had not experienced anything like this before. What was he supposed to do?
One other emotion joined the others at top speed; panic.
What if he doesn't love me back?
John closed the front door of 221B Baker Street behind him, on his way to the grocery store. Sherlock drove him up the wall sometimes, with his bloody – no pun intended – experiments. He seriously hated it when he came home and the kitchen was filled with foul-smelling smoke, or the remains of a hand soaked in some kind of acid were dumped in the sink, or when he wanted to make toast but instead found a (human) eyeball in the toaster. Not to mention those in the microwave, or the ever so messy kitchen table, or whatever was rotting in the oven (John couldn't bring himself to look).
John shook his head. The detective had his bad sides; those experiments were one of many, just like the sound of him practising his violin at all times – literally all times – or like this morning, when he was searching for his cigarettes to get rid of his boredom, trying to find distractions by shooting the wall with John's gun. But there were also good sides, even if they were a little hard to find. Many people asked John how he could put up with the apparent maniac, but it was because of those good sides that John stayed with him.
First of all, John always said, his life is exciting; after the war, he had felt out of place in dull, grey London, but then he met Sherlock and his life changed from dull to exhilarating.
The other good sides, John would never admit to anyone – he barely admitted them to himself. But he couldn't keep his own thoughts from himself, and while he walked to the store he went over them again in his head.
When they had a case, and Sherlock wasn't being an arse by ruining the flat in search for his cigarettes, he had this permanent smirk on his face. John thought it was because he finally had a chance to show off his brilliance, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He enjoyed watching Sherlock on a case, he was all excitement and concentration. He was still amazed every time the detective made an impressive deduction and he sometimes couldn't stop himself from exclaiming things like 'brilliant!' or 'fantastic!'. He was always rewarded by a tight but sincere smile from his companion, which always set off a spark in his belly. John was no fool; he knew exactly what that meant.
But being in love with Sherlock Holmes wasn't easy. The self-proclaimed sociopath didn't care about love, and as far as John knew, he had never had a relationship. He was only interested in his work and science, and John honestly didn't know why Sherlock hadn't already kicked him out of the flat; compared to the exciting detective, doctor John Watson was boring, predictable and ordinary. John sighed; while Sherlock was back at the flat, deducing – probably – he was going out to fetch the milk.
He'd been dealing with this infatuation (John didn't know what else to call it) for quite a while, now. It had started a few months after they'd started to live together, around the time when Sherlock had saved him from those Chinese gangsters, called the Black Lotus, and when there had been an explosion in Baker Street. John remembered how incredibly worried he'd been; he had ignored Sarah and run straight outside, rushing towards his flat, where – thank God – he had found Sherlock playing with his violin, annoyed with his brother, but very much alive.
But John just carried on with meeting women, occasionally going on a date. He knew Sherlock Holmes was the one person you shouldn't fall in love with because he would never succumb to something as irrelevant and amusing as love.
John frowned and looked down, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. Why did it have to be him? Of all people he could fall in love with – including men – why Sherlock Holmes?
Because, a nagging voice in the back of his head said, he is Sherlock Holmes. He is charming, brilliant, and he's accepted you, John Watson, as a friend. Remember that he's socially as developed as a five year-old.
But look at all the bad sides! Look at all the experiments, the tuning of a violin at all sorts of ungodly hours, the bullet holes in the wallpaper. Surely no one could like this man, let alone love him?
He's handsome as well, the voice continued. Those cheekbones, sharpening his face. Those perfectly shaped lips, always quirked in a smile. That cute, pointed nose, the paleness of his skin. The beautiful dark curls that framed his face and of course – the eyes. The most beautiful eyes in the world, a pale green, mixed with something that looks like a vague greyish-blue, dark, long eyelashes framing that brilliant sphere of colour.
And then of course there was his body. John shivered a little, but he could blame it on the rain. Sherlock Holmes was tall and skinny, though underneath that skinniness there was a certain muscularity. Those wiry muscles were easily visible in his expensive button-down shirts, and his trousers did good things to his body as well.
Breathe, John.
John took a deep breath and walked down the isle of dairy products. He was staring blindly at the range of milk, still thinking about his secret crush on his flatmate, when his mobile phone pinged in his pocket. He drew it out and looked at the luminous screen, displaying a text from Sherlock.
Goat's milk – pH over 7. Take the one on the right.
SH
John rolled his eyes. He would protect the milk from any harmful experiments with his life, if he had to. Before he could pick it up tough, his phone made a noise again.
If you're wondering, that means it's less acidic than cow's milk and thus better to use as a neutraliser.
SH
Again, John rolled his eyes. He was a doctor, he had had chemistry in high school, even several classes in university – he knew what the pH scale was. Flipping out the keyboard on the mobile phone Harry had given him, he texted back furiously, fingers flying across the keys.
I know that, Sherlock. If you want to get as close to a 7 as possible, why don't you just use water? JW
It had become sort of a habit for John to put his initials at the end of every text he sent, as the result of Sherlock's persistence in his own texts. John didn't even care anymore. He had just put his phone back in his pocket and reached for the milk on the left when his phone buzzed again.
I don't need a 7, John, I would have thought of water if I did.
SH
Ps: the one on the right is nicer to consume as well.
John closed his fist around the mobile phone, almost breaking it with his fingers. With clenched teeth he grabbed the milk on the right – Goddamned, it was ever cheaper – and stalked off, taking heavy steps as he got his wallet out. How did he love this man again?
Angry or not, John's heart was still beating at the prospect of seeing Sherlock again. He tried to stop the feeling, he tried to stop his heart from beating so bloody fast, he tried to stop the blood from rising to his face, colouring his cheeks. But it was of no use – when he saw the tall, handsome detective, still in his chair, it all happened as if he hadn't even tried to block it all out.
'I've got the milk, and if I find out it's empty before I have even used it, Sherlock, you can go and get it for as long as we live together,' he said in a raised voice.
Sherlock just nodded, a beaming smile on his face as he leapt up from his chair. 'Lestrade's called me,' he exclaimed happily, and John couldn't help but smile when he saw Sherlock's face light up. Also one of the good sides.
'And?' John asked, his smile widening when he saw a delighted sparkle in Sherlock's eyes.
'There's been a murder,' Sherlock announced, grabbing John by the shoulders. 'And such a fascinating one, judging by the information Lestrade's given me! You'll see when we get there, but oh, what a crime!'
John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock's happy exclamations, but his smile didn't fade. Seeing Sherlock smile was always a good day. He barely kept himself from shuddering when Sherlock touched his shoulders, but he didn't move away; he couldn't, even if he'd wanted to.
Sherlock let go eventually, his cheeks turning slightly pink – but he made sure John didn't see it. Sherlock was far too proud to admit his feelings for John. He grinned again as an idea popped into his head.
I don't want to be involved with your experiments, not ever. Understood? Sherlock grabbed his coat and darted out the door, followed by the ex-army doctor.
Oh, I understand, John. That does not mean I won't involve you in an experiment; I will find out whether you have feelings for me as well, and if that means doing so by means of an "experiment", then that's exactly what I'll do.
'You won't explain anything to me until we get there?' John asked when they were in the cab. Sherlock was staring out the window, ignoring John's question. He was thinking, or so it seemed.
'Fine,' John sighed. He leaned back against the comfortable seat of the car and closed his eyes, concentrating on the warm body beside him.
Sherlock kept staring at the streets flying by, not really noticing any of them. His mind was on his new plan, he was going through every step.
Step one: please John. Eat more, sleep more. Play his favourite pieces on the violin. Call Mycroft and Mummy more often – or pretend to. Talk less to the skull. More with him. Try to act less bored and always get dressed – I wonder which shirt he'd like best...?
Step two: find out what John likes in women and apply subtle flirt techniques to let him open up.
Step three: sabotage every date.
Step four: enter personal space.
And finally step five: draw experiment to an end... Kiss John.
Sherlock blushed and he turned his head. The thought of kissing the man beside him was overwhelming. He'd give anything to turn around, put his hands on the doctor's cheeks and kiss him passionately, but he knew he had to stick to the plan. If he didn't, he might ruin their friendship and probably cause John to move out of Baker Street and hate him forever, and then he'd be alone again and Sherlock knew he couldn't bare that, not when he found out his love for John. He'd rather live with John forever, not ever telling him about his feelings, than telling him and ruining everything for both of them.
They arrived at the crime scene when it was already starting to get dark. It was a big, expensive house, and several police officers – including detective inspector Lestrade – were already at the scene, securing the area and gathering information.
'Good, Sherlock, you're here,' Lestrade said, trying to hide his relief. He nodded to John in acknowledgement and started explaining the murder in further details. 'Two bodies, judging by the bruises on their necks strangled, but it is unsure whether they died of suffocation. There are also multiple stab wounds...'
'And the reason you called me?' Sherlock's eyes gleamed with pleasure, already knowing the answer.
'Their eyes have been cut out,' Lestrade said, trying to be impassive. He couldn't hide his disgust though, and shuddered. 'And this is not the first time it's happened, over the past two years we've had five victims, their eyes all missing.'
'And now you want me to have a look,' Sherlock said, smirking. 'A bit late, isn't it?'
'Behave, Sherlock,' John muttered. One of the bad sides.
Step one: please John. Sherlock clenched his teeth and took a deep breath. He was going to do everything it would take to fulfil this experiment. He rolled his eyes and nodded. 'Can we please see the bodies?' he asked as politely as possible.
Lestrade nodded and let them through, directing them to the front door of the house, which was wide open. The brightly lit hallway was filled with more cops and people from the forensics department. Sherlock narrowed his eyes when he saw the back of a man that was unmistakeably Anderson's, and snorted, loud enough for him to hear it. Anderson turned around and his face told John more than his words ever could when he looked at the tall detective.
'Ah, here is our favourite amateur-psychopath,' he sneered. 'Try not to mess up the crime scene, so we can actually solve this murder.'
Please John. 'I'm sure we'll manage just fine, Anderson. I think John would actually be able to confirm the cause of death, unlike any of you imbeciles.' Lestrade winced, but John didn't see; he blushed at Sherlock's compliment and looked at his feet, trying to
avoid Anderson's venomous gaze. Sherlock stole a quick glance at his companion and grinned as he saw John's cheeks flush.
Sweet success.
They entered a spacious living room, with a high ceiling and windows almost as tall. The curtains were drawn and a fire was still burning in the hearth underneath the mantelpiece, causing a shimmering but eerie light to dance across the two bodies that lay face down on the carpet. John heard a slap of rubber on flesh next to him and looked; Sherlock had already put his gloves on, ready to examine the bodies. John followed his example, ready to live up to the expectation of determining the victims' death.
They both crouched next to the first body, but their own bodies were so close, their breathing so hot against each other's skin, neither could fully concentrate on their work. Sherlock frowned and got up, gesturing for John to continue with his examination of the victim while Sherlock walked to the other one. John breathed a sigh of relief and focused again.
The eyes had been cleanly removed; the killer had been careful around all the muscles that kept the eyeball in its socket. There was little blood on the face, but the same could not be said for the body – four different stab wounds had pierced the man's stomach and chest, but John could be fairly sure they hadn't been lethal, not immediately. They would have been if the victim was laid out to bleed to death, but that hadn't happened since the cuts were made after the victim had been killed. John did not do autopsies, but he was a doctor and knew enough about the human body to be sure the man had been suffocated. He stood up and walked over to where Sherlock stood, inspecting the other body, that of a woman's. 'And?' he asked, a hint of a smile around his lips. Lestrade stood against the wall, looking at them in desperation.
'The killer was clean and precise in removing the eyeballs. I'd say they have been removed after the victim's death, just like the stab wounds were made after. I'm fairly sure this man has suffocated. This can be confirmed by closer inspection of the blood. The wounds were made shortly after the man's death.'
'How do you know he has been suffocated, if not bled to death?' Lestrade asked. He still had difficulty dealing with the fact that John knew as much as their own people.
'I can't be sure. It's this feeling I get as a doctor, but I'm ninety-nine percent sure that the autopsy will reveal a broken hyoid bone – that's the bone close to the windpipe. In most cases, a broken hyoid bone means that the victim died of strangulation.'
Lestrade nodded, unable to keep his mouth closed. John was starting to look more and more like his flatmate. 'And the other body?' he asked.
John looked at Sherlock, who waved his arm at the body. 'I've inspected him, but I'd feel better if you did as well,' he said. John smiled at him and crouched again, feeling Sherlock's bright eyes bore into his back as he examined the woman.
He came to the same conclusion and stood up again. 'Both were strangled to death and stabbed afterwards. Not to mention their eyes,' he added in a mumble.
Lestrade nodded again and now looked at Sherlock. 'And what have you got?' he asked briskly.
Sherlock smiled and practically skipped around the room, deducing practically everything there, things that were probably not even relevant to the case.
'They were husband and wife,' he said. 'They are roughly the same age, and they live in the same house. The photographs on the mantelpiece and their wedding rings tell me they are married. There are no children, because there would have been pictures of them, judging by the amount of photographs present in this room. They can afford a housekeeper, looking at the expense of this house, but they don't – they appreciate their privacy.'
'Sherlock, seriously – '
'Her hand!' Sherlock exclaimed. 'The smell, it's definitely of disinfectant. She cleans the house herself, instead of a possible housekeeper or maid. The curtains are drawn, something that a serial killer would never do, certainly not one who's as proud as this man...'
'Man?'
'Obviously,' Sherlock sighed. 'Now we've landed at the killer, perhaps it is best to continue with him. The eyeballs – they're carefully removed, as John has already stated. This could not be done by an unpractised hand – the tissue, the muscles; one would have to know them all. The other victims had their eyes cut out as well, right, Lestrade? Tell me, were they as clean cut as these two?'
'Yes,' Lestrade said reluctantly.
'Well, that narrows the field,' said Sherlock jovially. 'That means we're looking for a man, roughly six feet tall, a shoe size of about eleven and a surgical history.'
'We're looking for a doctor, then?'
'No, no, no!' said Sherlock impatiently. 'A practised hand in surgical matters. Someone who's been a student in medicine, perhaps – that does not mean the killer must be a doctor, Lestrade.'
'Six foot?' John asked, picking up on the rest his friend had said.
'Yes,' said Sherlock. He pointed at the wall behind the sofa, opposite the fireplace. 'Look – there is a small scratch on the wallpaper. There is also a bit of blood around the edges. The killer threw his knife at the wall in frustration, obviously after the victims were killed. When throwing something, one would most likely throw at eye level. That scratch is roughly six feet above the ground, thus indicating that the killer was around that height.' Good; John is staring at you – continue, continue.
'At first, he was relieving his anger on his victims, but something stopped him – perhaps it was his moral principles, perhaps an alarming sound, but he threw his knife at the wall and probably fled. He turned on his heel quickly, and with that he shifted the carpet.' Sherlock pointed at a fold in the expensive rug, a long, slightly curved line edging up from the floor. Sherlock gently placed his foot beside it; it didn't quite fit, but Sherlock declared triumphantly; 'Shoe size eleven.'
'Amazing,' John muttered. Sherlock beamed at him. This experiment is going rather well. Step two is well on the way – continue step one during the whole process.
'We're done here, Lestrade. Call us if the autopsy reports confirm John's suspicions – and if they don't, then we'll examine the bodies ourselves again. If anything interesting turns up, let us know.' And just like that, he strode away, leaving Lestrade dumbstruck beside his latest victims, mouth hanging open as the last of the detective's coat vanished around the door.
'Where are you going?' Sherlock asked John as the doctor picked up his coat and shrugged it on.
'Out,' John replied. Sherlock felt his heart sink. He tried to keep his face steady as he asked; 'What's her name?'
John looked around in confusion. 'Her name?' he muttered questioningly. 'Oh – Sherlock, it's not a date. I'm just going to a pub
with Mike.'
Sherlock barely kept himself from breathing a sigh of relief. No date, good. Must remember to make sure his future attempts in dating fail. 'Oh,' he said, with the feigned air of surprise. He shrugged, but smirked behind his book. 'Have fun.'
John frowned. Have fun? 'Right, then... I'll probably be back around midnight. Give or take an hour.'
'More like give,' Sherlock muttered with a grin.
'Yeah,' John laughed. 'You'll be alright, I suppose... See you, Sherlock.'
'Right. Bye, John.'
John stared at Sherlock for a few seconds longer than necessary, but eventually turned around and went through the door that would lead to the landing, walking off the stairs after that. Sherlock pointed his ears and waited for the slam of the front door. When it came, he relaxed back into his chair and brought his fingertips together in front of his chin, settling in his familiar thinking-pose.
Definitely jealousy. Now that is interesting... He's just meeting a friend for a drink. Right, then. Step two: find out what he likes in women and apply subtle flirt techniques to let him open up.
Hmmm... He'd have to observe for this. Or gain information another way. Suppose I could ask John about it when he gets home. Subtle, of course. He should not find my sudden questioning suspicious. Say you're doing an experiment – general information on dating is needed. Sherlock nodded to himself. Yes, John would not think it odd; after all, his knowledge of practical social matters was close to nil. Step two: in progress.
'Sherlock, I'm home,' John announced. As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Too greedy? Would he notice?
John shook his head. Of course he wouldn't – Sherlock was socially as ignorant as a toddler.
'Ah, John. You took your time,' said Sherlock, glancing at his watch.
John sat down in his beloved red armchair opposite Sherlock, throwing his coat in a dark corner of the room. He hummed in reply; 'Yeah. Mike insisted I had another drink.'
'What have you been talking about?'
'Stuff. I don't know, just... things. Things people usually talk about when they go out.'
'And that is?'
'Ahm... work, the weather, relationships, just the day in general.'
'Speaking of relationships...' Sherlock muttered, his heart beating frantically.
'Hmm?' John asked, his face growing pale.
'I need some data.'
'Oh,' John sighed, visibly relaxing. This was Sherlock Holmes the sociopath speaking again.
'About relationships.'
'Yes, I got that. What would you like me to tell you?'
'I need to know your dating experience, some facts – don't worry, I'll get some from other people as well. But since you're my flatmate, I decided I better ask you, since that would make certain encounters a little less... uncomfortable.'
John nodded, feeling a certain peace with the fact that he was going to tell Sherlock about his love life and the people involved – except for the most recent one of course. 'What do you want to know?'
'Firstly, one factor in my experiment is physical attraction. What do you find satisfactory?'
John swallowed as the blood drained from his face. 'Er...' he stammered. Under Sherlock's piercing gaze, he finally gave in. 'Looks have never really been a big issue for me, though I'd lie if I said I didn't care altogether. I suppose I like a tall person – women,' he corrected himself with scarlet cheeks. 'I like fine features, especially when certain lighting accentuates them – ' he stopped once again when he realised the light from the fire danced slowly across Sherlock's face, adding a whole new dimension to Sherlock's sharp features. 'Full lips, I suppose... expressive eyes.'
'And on bodies?'
'Well, any man likes a curvy woman, though I have dated some skinny women and I have to admit, they were quite all right...' John's voice trailed off. What was he saying?
'But you said looks were not the most important,' Sherlock pressed.
John nodded in confirmation. 'It's the inside that matters most to me; I don't like liars, or anything like that. My partner – girlfriend – should be honest with me. I want someone who loves me for who I am, not because of money or something – not that I have money,' he added when Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'But you get what I'm saying...'
'I think I do,' said Sherlock, nodding. 'Thank you, John. You've been very helpful.'
'Glad I could help,' John said, standing up from his chair. 'I'm going to go to bed, I'm tired as hell. Good night, Sherlock.'
'Good night, John. Sleep well.'
John woke to the sound of Sherlock playing his violin, though it was different than usual this morning. Normally, it would have been three in the morning, and John thought Sherlock chose the pieces he hated deliberately. Most of the time, he was just tuning and the monotone vibrations of sound annoyed John to insanity.
This morning, however, it was about nine o'clock, just the time John liked to get up, and Sherlock was playing one of his favourite pieces. John remembered the night he had recommended it and Sherlock had shivered in disgust. 'But that's so... easy, ordinary!' he had exclaimed.
John stumbled downstairs after dressing himself and sat down at the kitchen table for breakfast.
'John, you're awake!' Sherlock beamed. He turned around and put his violin away, and walked up to the kitchen table to sit opposite John.
'Nicely played,' John said, smiling as his eyes briefly swept over Sherlock's body; he always liked the purple shirt. Sherlock noticed the quick glance and smiled, taking in the compliment. Step two completed faster than I anticipated. Time for step three and four: sabotage every date and enter personal space. Resume second part of step two: apply subtle flirt techniques.
'So, what's on for today, John?'
John frowned at his friend. 'You're asking me?'
Sherlock nodded, sitting down beside John. Making no further attempt to repeat his question, he grabbed a mug of coffee and sipped it innocently.
'Isn't there the case? The eyeball thing?'
'Yes,' said Sherlock. 'What do you think we should do about it?' He put down his cup and licked his lips, a little slower than he'd usually do. John's eyes flashed down for a brief moment and Sherlock smiled, his gaze fixed on John's dark blue eyes. He bit his lip when he saw John's pupils dilate a little bit. Ah. So the attraction is there. Excellent.
'Why are you letting me decide?' John's eyes moved back to Sherlock's with curiosity.
'Because I value your opinion. And I honestly don't know where we should start.'
'You don't know?' John scoffed. 'Yeah, right. What's going on here, Sherlock?'
Sherlock leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. He stared at John intently and knew that John was looking at his shoulders – the movement had pulled his shirt tight around his arms and chest. Sherlock rested one cheek in his hand. 'I just wanted to know what your thoughts on the matter were,' he said innocently, blinking and frowning as if John had hurt his feelings. John immediately softened. 'Oh,' he said, and a warm blush spread across his face. 'Well... We haven't had a call from Lestrade yet, so I assume there's nothing they've found yet.'
'They're probably doing the autopsy right now. They promised they'd call afterwards. This is good coffee,' he remarked, holding up his mug.
'Thanks,' John said, a smile forming around his lips. 'I made it.' In his head, John made a face. I made it? Good God, John, as if that wasn't obvious. But, Sherlock is being exceptionally nice this morning. Perhaps there is something he wants me to do. What else could he want?
Sherlock chuckled. 'Let's just wait then, until we get the call. What should we do in the meantime? Watch telly? Or play Cluedo?'
'Are you sick, Sherlock? You, playing Cluedo?'
Sherlock shrugged. 'Whatever takes my mind off things. I suppose I could read a book, though there's nothing in this cabinet that I haven't already read. Some of it's boring.'
'You are sick, Sherlock. You're not yourself this morning.'
Sherlock frowned as if insulted. 'I thought my "self" was not very appealing. I'm only trying to make myself a bit more likeable.' He patted John's shoulder gently. 'Well, if you don't like it, then I can just as well – '
'No!' said John loudly. He blushed and pulled Sherlock down by the wrist. Sherlock hid a wide grin and sat down next to John again. 'No,' John repeated, concentrating on his toast again. 'I quite like it, it's just... unusual.'
'It's mostly for an experiment.'
John couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. It was all for an experiment, now that was Sherlock's kind of thing to do. 'The same experiment as you needed information from my love life for?'
'Yes, though I have to say that...' Sherlock hesitated.
'What?' John asked curiously. Why can't you bring up the courage to just kiss him? He's right beside you, he shows a certain interest in you, why can't you just snog him like you've dreamt about for so long? Oh, look at his face – it's all curiosity and doubt. I love how his expressions are so much more readable then he thinks – wait. Doubt?
'I have to say that it's not all for the experiment. I... want to make you feel a bit more comfortable around me.'
'I am comfortable around you,' John said, gobsmacked. He frowned, unsure what to do. He lifted his hand hesitantly and laid it on top of Sherlock's. He felt the detective's hand jerk back a little at the touch, but it stayed where it was. John smiled at his friend, who had a hesitant smile on his face as well. 'The same cannot be said for most people, though,' John continued. 'But it can for me.' His skin might look hard and cold like porcelain, but God, it's so incredibly soft and warm... I can feel his heartbeat pulsing through it – am I imagining it or is it going faster? John was intrigued by the contrast of his tanned hand and Sherlock's pale skin, but his gaze was pulled back to Sherlock's eyes again soon. They were just like his hands – at first, they seemed cold and hard, distant, but John knew better and could now see the warmth and emotion behind them.
Sherlock felt John's warm hand on top of his and he had to concentrate on keeping his breathing steady. His heart started beating faster and he hoped John wouldn't notice – or did he? Was step five this close already?
Sherlock took a deep breath. Step five: draw experiment to an end... Kiss John.
'John,' he said, and the tone in his voice made John look up in curiosity, but before Sherlock could say more his phone rang. He swore and breathed a sigh of relief in his head at the same time and lifted his hand from John's. He answered his phone quickly.
'Sherlock Holmes,' he said.
'You and John were right; both victims were suffocated – that bone thingy was broken. The stab wounds were made after they had been killed. How did John know that by just looking, by the way? I thought you were supposed to use microscopes for that or something...'
'John has seen enough dead bodies to be reasonably sure what has happened to them, and together we've seen more than a few crime scenes – we know how certain murderers act.'
'Ah,' Lestrade said, not entirely convinced. 'Right, the blood splashes on the wall are the woman's, so he's probably stabbed her after he'd stabbed her husband.'
'Which means he's probably strangled him first as well. Right. Thank you, Lestrade. Any more?'
'Uh, yeah. You were wrong about the kids – they have one son, he's about twenty-five years old now.'
'I was wrong? Hmmm... I'll need to think about this. Send me everything you've got about that son,' Sherlock muttered. 'If there were no photographs of him in the sitting area, there must be some elsewhere in the house.'
'Yes, there was one, in the room nest to theirs. It used to be Clive's – that's the name of their son.'
'Great. Send me a copy of that as well. I'll speak to you later.' Sherlock hung up on Lestrade before the DI could say anything else.
'Well?' said John, and Sherlock was instantly reminded of how close he had been to kissing him. He shuddered at the thought, both of dread and delight. Kissing John... Kissing John would be amazing and stupid. You can't know what would happen, Sherlock, how much you plan or anticipate. The outcome of this experiment is entirely up to the subject: John. Sherlock shook his head. Need more data.
What data? There is no data. It's John, it's just John, all you have to do is kiss him. All you have to do is press your lips to his and curl your hands around his cheeks. Do it. Do it!
'Sherlock?' John asked. 'Is there something wrong?'
Sherlock blinked and looked at John. 'No, nothing's wrong,' he whispered. 'Lestrade just called me. He said the Carters do have a son.'
'So you were wrong, then?' John muttered, amused.
'How was I to know? There were no pictures, and judging by the amount of photographs that were in the room...'
'Yeah, all right, I get it. So they did find one, then?'
'Yes...' Sherlock explained everything that Lestrade had told him over the phone. 'They'll send us all the data as soon as possible.'
John sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead. He was still tired, even though it was in the morning. This case was so incredibly pressing and demanding, and just minutes ago he'd have sworn Sherlock was about to say something, or do something... John groaned. You're imagining things, John. Stop it! Sherlock's not into you, he's not into anybody, you're just so desperate you see possibilities in every move he makes. Let it go, you'll never be with him. He doesn't love like that.
Sherlock was already pacing again and John looked at him with a mix of adoration and despair. The detective was everything to him, and thought of living with him for the rest of their careers without really being with him was – not quite unbearable, but certainly difficult to live with. But if it was what he had to do to keep his friendship with Sherlock intact, then he was prepared to do it.
'Of course!' Sherlock shouted. 'It's obvious.'
'What is?' John asked, looking up from where he was sitting. Sherlock had been thinking for about an hour or so and John had been content just listening to his soft voice while he muttered unintelligible words over and over again.
'The son,' said Sherlock. He pointed loosely at the wall with his hand; all the files and photographs on the three Carters were pinned against it, making a chaotic, unorganised mess. 'My initial feeling in their house was correct after all; they don't have a son. They had a son.'
'What, is he dead? Lestrade didn't say anything...'
'No, not dead, estranged! My guess is that they broke contact, presumably a few years ago. The only reason they still have one photograph of him – sentiment. Always sentiment,' Sherlock snorted.
John didn't say anything. He knew where these conversations usually ended and he wasn't feeling like arguing with Sherlock about something as human as emotions.
'There must be something that made them break contact. An argument, perhaps, a serious argument. Call Lestrade – if this is as easy as I think it is, we might not even have to leave the flat again... Ah,' he muttered and he tapped a file on the wall.
'Yeah, okay. What have you figured out?'
'Nothing yet, but if I get the right information... Thank you,' Sherlock said when John handed him the phone. 'Lestrade,' Sherlock said with a smile. 'Clive Carter – have you managed to find him already? No? Well, it is of great importance that you do. I think he might me the murderer. It says here in these files that he and his parents had an argument a few years back. Apparently, Clive wanted to get married but his parents didn't approve. Can you find out what happened with the girl he wanted to be his wife? It might have something to do with this.'
John watched in fascination and confusion. The way Sherlock picked up on the smallest things with barely a hint was astonishing, but sometimes he felt left out because Sherlock needed to explain everything to him. 'Thank you,' he head Sherlock say before he hung up. 'Now we wait for another phone call,' he said with a grin.
'What is it that you have noticed?' John asked again. He hated the fact that he didn't have any idea what the detective was up to half of the time.
'As ever, John, you see but you do not observe. It's all in the files – frankly, this has been one of the easiest cases I've ever taken.'
'Then why did you take it? If it was so easy?'
'It sounded promising.'
John chuckled and stood up from his chair. 'I'm going out for a while,' he said. 'And this time, it is a date.'
'Oh, didn't you hear?' Sherlock said, without looking up. His heartbeat entered a stage of frenzy, but he kept his facial expression under control. 'She cancelled. Apparently, there's been a gas leak in her house and she couldn't leave. She left a message on your phone.'
'But where is my phone? I thought I had it – ' John's voice trailed off when Sherlock reached over and picked his phone up from one of the desk's drawers. 'How did you get that?' he asked suspiciously.
'You forgot it.'
John shrugged and went to grab his phone. He listened to the message his "date" had left behind and sighed. 'Guess that'll be a night at home, then.'
Sherlock smirked. Sabotage future dates: successful.
'Bloody fingers!' John exclaimed. He slammed the refrigerator closed and threw his hands up in exasperation. No response came; the tall detective sat in his chair, unmoving. 'Sherlock!' John shouted. Slowly, Sherlock looked up, not at all alarmed by John's raised voice. 'Mm...?' he murmured.
'There are multiple fingers in the fridge – how am I supposed to eat properly in this place?' John bellowed indignantly. 'I've told you before, I'm getting sick of this.' Sherlock just stared at him, his hand folded underneath his chin. His impassiveness enraged John even more. 'Does it even occur to you that my food is in there? Not to mention all the other...' John inhaled sharply, looking for the right noun, 'stuff and experiments hiding in a dark corner... I've had it!'
'What would you like me to do?' Sherlock asked, finally rising from his seat. He walked over to the kitchen and faced the doctor, towering above him. Okay, this had to be the moment, he couldn't put it off any longer. This was the time to let John know...
'You're going to remove all this science equipment, the toxic gases, the poisonous substances and the body parts from this kitchen and make this flat an inhabitable one!'
Sherlock chuckled at John's anger. John, it's the soldier in you speaking, isn't it? Giving me orders... Yes, it's time. 'Oh, I can't do that, John...' he murmured, taking one step closer. 'My experiments are everywhere; not just in the kitchen...' Their toes almost touched and John drew in a small breath; he was obviously uncomfortable with the sudden intimacy. 'Then we'll remove everything,' he said determinedly, not blinking as he looked the detective in the eye. He couldn't help but notice their pale green, blue-greyish colour, dark long eyelashes surrounding them.
'I don't know whether I want to remove you,' Sherlock said with a rapidly beating heart. Oh, God. This is it. I am telling John how I feel – my attraction to him is finally coming out.
'I... what?' John asked, taking a step back. Sherlock caught him by the wrist before he could move away though, and leaned in to brush his lips against John's ear. 'You're an experiment, John. I am testing my emotional and physical reaction to the presence of another man – and not just any other man...' He laid John's hand on his heart. 'My heart rate increases when I am near you. My stomach feels hollow and my lower abdomen tickles with... desire when I see you move.'
'Sentiment?' John asked nervously, licking his lips.
Sherlock grinned. 'Love,' he answered, his gaze drawn to John's tongue wetting his mouth.
'Can I...' he muttered, releasing John's wrist and placing his hand on his cheek. John didn't move away. 'Can I kiss you?'
John nodded, barely able to believe that this was Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock wanted to kiss him, John Watson, an ordinary human being, and he had just more or less admitted that he was in love with him, attracted to him, both physically and emotionally. John wanted to be kissed by Sherlock – with a burning desire. He had watched the detective for months with that feeling and he realised it finally came true, he was going to kiss Sherlock –
'God, yes.'
Sherlock smiled, taking John's head in his hands while leaning forward slowly. His lips barely brushed John's, but the light feeling in his belly had already increased by tenfold. God, he wanted John, he had wanted him for so long. He opened his mouth and delved deeper into the kiss. John could only gasp, amazement visible on his face. He responded by grabbing a handful of Sherlock's dark curls, and pressed Sherlock's mouth closer to his own.
Sherlock's teeth played with John's lower lip and the doctor groaned into his mouth. He pressed himself tighter to Sherlock, yanking the detective's head back so he could reach his mouth a bit more easily. 'You and your experiments,' John chuckled. He had succeeded in pushing Sherlock's back to the refrigerator he'd closed so angrily only moments before. 'I rather like this one,' Sherlock murmured breathlessly. 'Interesting conclusions... One kiss is apparently not enough to satisfy my desire for you, John, as I expected it to. No, my body reacts more than I could have foreseen. I want to feel you, feel your muscles and your scars, kiss you everywhere, I want to feel the heat of your body pressed against mine...' Sherlock shook his head. 'It's hard to think objectively about this. You are just so wonderful, John.'
John moaned quietly. He had dreamt about this, fantasised about it, thought about this and wanted this for so long and now it was happening, and Sherlock told him he desired him, wanted him too, wanted his body. 'I've wanted this for so long, Sherlock...' he whispered against Sherlock's mouth.
'How long?' Sherlock asked while pulling back. He looked John in his eyes, pale green into drak blue, and John nearly melted when he saw the affectionate look in the detective's eyes. 'God, months,' John answered.
'Me too,' Sherlock sighed. 'I should have done this a lot sooner...' And he lowered his head again and pressed his lips to John's again, parting his lips, letting John's breathing fill his mouth.
His phone rang again, and Sherlock knew it was Lestrade. He wormed his phone out of his pocket, pressed the red button and threw it on his chair. He walked John towards his bedroom while keeping his arms still around him.
'That was Lestrade, he had new information. Well, new...' Sherlock muttered.
'Why didn't you answer?'
'Because I have already solved the case. They will in a split second – I just directed them to it by asking about Clive Carter's girlfriend. She had an eye surgery, done by his father, one of the victims. It went terribly wrong and she ended up with more damage to her eyes than she already had when she entered the hospital. Clive went after his father and murdered him, but when his mother witnessed everything and threatened to go to the police, he killed her too. He took their eyes as revenge for what they did to the girl he wanted to marry. His father was an eye surgeon, and he taught him about eyes, therefore enabling him to cleanly remove the eyes with surgical precision. The other victims over the past few years were just building up to this, they served as practise.'
John was silent for a while. Eventually, he softly muttered: 'My God, that's sexy.'
'What is?' Sherlock asked with a light blush.
'You are. Solving all those crimes... I don't know how you do it...'
Sherlock chuckled. 'This one was quite easy. It's just combining all the facts, eliminating the impossible. Nothing special.'
'You are special,' John whispered, pulling Sherlock on top of him on the bed. He started to unbutton the purple shirt he loved so much while pressing small kisses to Sherlock's neck.
'You, John, are the special one.' Sherlock followed John's example and soon both their shirts lay on the floor beside the bed. They continued with their kissing, exploring each other's bodies. It was so new for both of them – John had never been with a man before, and Sherlock had never been with anyone before.
'Sherlock... am I the first person to kiss you?'
Sherlock nodded without hesitation. 'I wouldn't have wished for anyone else to.' He hesitated for a second before he asked: 'Am I any good...?'
The pink blush on Sherlock's cheekbones and the questioning look he gave him made John smile and he pressed a kiss to the tip of Sherlock's nose. 'Yes. It surprises me how experienced you seem. Don't tell me you researched on this.'
'No,' Sherlock answered. 'I had plenty of dreams about us, though.'
'You're not the only one,' said John. He took Sherlock's head in his hands and pulled him down. He kissed him more fiercely than before, and ran a hand through his beautiful, soft, dark curls. 'Never leave me,' he whispered against the skin of Sherlock's neck.
'I wasn't planning to,' Sherlock replied, breathing softly in his ear. A blissful feeling spread through both of them and they gave themselves up to the other. I wasn't planning to.
Author's note:
So, this is Hedgehog who's been writing this :) Since it was Otter's turn on our main story, "Sentiment", I decided I better start on one of the short stories we'd been planning, and this is what came out of it.
I'm very happy with the result and I hope you are, too :) The ending is a bit sudden and direct, but I couldn't resist. So, please tell us what you think and review :) Thank you ^_^