Author's Notes: This is an idea that suddenly came to me one evening, and honestly, it was supposed to end with Sherlock being lobotomized. I thought you all might hate me for that, so now we have a fic that might possibly be multi chaptered and full of fluff! For those of you who follow me, 'Rewrite' is not abandoned! Only taking a break from the angst.
Warnings: -makes a kissy face with obscene noises- Saliva exchange! Johnlock. Though, I want to call them Watolmes.
Disclaimer: You don't want to know the things I'd do if they were mine….
'Experimentation'
Chapter One
'The Nurse Who Loved Me'
Hospital always seemed to have a strange smell, and this one was no different that the tens that John had set foot it before. Every hospital that the doctor had worked in before had had a mental ward, but never had he been in a place strictly for the mentally insane.
From the outside, the place called simply 'The Manor' seemed… creepy. John knew there were other words, but he settled for creepy. It stretched three stories into the air with a red bricked face and many small windows showing rooms. Each window had black shutters and bars across the glass, and John had a feeling of dread that had felt before, in many places. It was a strange, hair prickling sensation that seemed to come with all creepy looking buildings.
It looked like what it had been in the Victorian era; a manor for the posh. There were remnants of a flower bed among the garden, and a courtyard with a fountain and granite slabs that made a decorative pattern, though it all seemed in disrepair. The fountain no longer flowed and the slabs were broken into smaller bits. The flowerbeds were long since withered and overgrown by weeds though hints of rusty looking vines could be seen through the scraggly overgrowth.
Through the fog, it all looked muted and murky. It was miserable and depressing and all manner of adjectives that fit with the appalling state of the place. John thought it looked a little like something he had seen in a horror film once, and he worried about the state of the patients inside, one in particular.
The inside did not add anything positive to the feeling of the place. Like the outside, everything seemed bland and boring and it didn't make John feel at home, even the slightest. Despite its grand appearance, it looked very much like any other hospital that John had ever been in; white and sterile. There had been an attempt to make things homier, with the addition of bad art and uncomfortable chairs. Looking around, John wondered why Mycroft would ever send his own brother to such a place.
Even if Sherlock… Probably deserved to be in something like timeout for awhile, after the stunt he had pulled that led John here. He was going to give him a scolding, even if it wouldn't do any good. It would make him feel much better.
John approached the window, and tapped on the glass. As quick as a whip, the window snapped back and there was an artificial smile being aimed at him in all its dazzling glory. The owner of the smile was a pretty young woman with auburn hair tied back into a bun and dimples in her cheeks. "Hello! Can I help you?"
John was startled for a moment, but quickly shook it off as he replied with a smile of his own, "Um, hello, I'm Dr. John Watson. I'm expected for a Mr. Holmes?"
The look John received was a flat one. All the sparkle had left her face, and she only looked mean, "Oh. Right. That one. I'll buzz you in. It's down the hall and up the stairs, second floor, room 221."
"Really? Could I—" And the little glass door was slammed shut in his face. "Thank you!" He shouted through the glass, before turned rou8nd the corner and heading through the doors that swung open to allow him access. When he reached the other side, he paused until the doors sealed behind him. He didn't have a visitor's pass… He heard the click of a mail slot, and looked down out of instinct. There was a door to his right, and in front of it was a small card that read 'VISITOR' and his name in neat little letters.
He bent top pick it up, and then pinned it to his vest. Problem solved. The staff gave him no problems, only friendly smiles and a few asked where he was headed. When he told them, they seemed to take on a different attitude, and point. It seemed that Sherlock had been behaving… Like his usual self when he couldn't solve things. John pitied them all.
After the climb of stairs and a confusing set of corridors, John arrived at the corridor he though to be proper. On this floor, all the doors had heavy sliding bolt locks, and it was surprisingly quiet on this floor. He saw barely any staff, and it seemed mostly unused. He was eventually found by a young man who explained that he needed to escort John to the room, to ensure the patient didn't escape.
Room 221 was a room with only the tiniest window at the top of a high ceiling to let natural light in. It was white and sterile and possessed a single cot and a table and chair as well as a bedside table with a lamp. There were books scattered around the room, and sketches strewn across the table of formulas and equations and a plethora of things to try and ease the racing mind of a genius.
In the middle of the brilliant chaos was the eye of the storm. Sherlock had his fingers gnarled into his hair, as he sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, balancing on the balls of his feet on his bed while he muttered under his breath, his eyes flicking around as if he were watching something skitter across his vision. John knew he was in his mind palace, and he should be delicate about disturbing him.
"Um… Hello, Sherlock. Funny seeing you here."
The fingers stopped their twisted and his figure froze. "Funny?" The baritone growl, "John, this is not even a little bit funny."
John stepped into the room, and the closed behind him, being bolted back into place by the young man whose name he didn't know. Sherlock had straightened himself, and slide off the bed in an agitated way to face John. The doctor could see how thin he looked, and the bags under his eyes and the sullen way about him. He was dressed in his favorite lazing attire; loose fitting trousers and a plain shirt and his blue silken bathrobe. It was much better than the sheet.
"They took my sheet, John. I was lucky that Mycroft thought to send my own clothes, but they took my sheet. I'll need it back when we leave." Sherlock seemed absolutely dour at the fact they had taken his favorite sheet and John just couldn't help but laugh.
"Are you serious? They brought you in here in a sheet?" John asked incredulously.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and began to pace in tight circles, "After an unfortunate turn of events, yes. I ended up back at the flat and very naked when they came to take me away."
John furrowed his brows, "Why were you 'very naked' ?"
Sherlock gave him a very flat look, "Why else would I be naked, John?"
"I… Well, if you were normal, I'd have a few suggestions." The doctor chortled a little, even under the withering stare of Sherlock.
"Oh, shut up. I need to get out of here. It's driving me mad!"
John's eyes passed over the chaos of the room, and he nodded, "I can see that…. I know why you're here." John said, cutting to the chase as quickly as possible, "And I'd like to hear your side of it."
"My side is the only side of it! The proper side!" Sherlock shouted as he paused in his pacing to glare at John.
"What about the woman you bit?! What about her side?!" John raised his voice back to the taller man, not willing to back down.
"She obviously doesn't matter!"
"Sherlock!"
"What!" Sherlock rolled his eyes as he crossed his arms about his chest, the picture of a petulant child. "I didn't break skin, and everyone was fine! She overreacted. And so are you!"
John shook his head and heaved a sigh as he moved deeper into the room, his anger making him antsy, "You attacked an innocent, Sherlock. A civilian!"
Sherlock gave an inelegant snort, "It's not as if I didn't warn her. I did, three times in fact."
There was an ache developing betweens John's eyes that he couldn't quite shake and he lifted his hand to pinch at it. "If she speaks Bulgarian and not English, then you didn't actually warn her. You terrified her, and then attacked…. Why the hell are you going around biting people, anyway?!"
"Research. And I didn't have a willing person to test it on." The accusations were all aimed at John, who rolled his eyes and sighed as he dropped onto the bed.
"I was away. I told you I left; it's not my fault you can't be bothered to pay attention or read the note I left."
Still, Sherlock pouted, "I tried to text you."
John smiled a little, "I'm sorry, I was in the States with Harry. My mobile doesn't work outside of the country."
Slowly, Sherlock seemed to be calming. "We will have to fix that, then. I don't like you being out of reach."
Those words were fact to Sherlock, or else he would never speak them. They made John's chest do a funny flutter as emotion bubbled through him to paint his cheeks a soft blush. Before the blood flow could develop into something darker, John shook it off and chalked it up to Sherlock being himself. To one so brilliant, other minds were simply tools. John might have been his favorite tool, but he was still a tool to Sherlock.
John sometimes forgot that. Sometimes he thought that maybe the brilliant man saw him through affectionate eyes. Other days, John thought Sherlock wanted to murder him by experimental means. Whatever the case might have been, John knew that he shouldn't get his hopes too high.
."…Are you even listening?" The annoyed tone snapped the doctor from his thoughts, and he swung his head to Sherlock with a dazed expression that clearly said 'of course I wasn't.' It made the detective roll his eyes and heave a melodramatic sigh, "I was asking when we can leave, and what state the blue lidded containers in the refrigerator are in."
John blinked, "I… don't touch anything you've labeled, not after last time." Last time had found John with a severe case of food poisoning and vivid hallucinations that lasted hours. "I think Mycroft and Lestrade plan to keep you here awhile."
"And how long is awhile! This infringes on my basic human rights!"
"Mycroft said you'd say something like that. He said to tell you that you're not exactly human to begin with, so those don't count."
The dark haired man rolled his eyes, and then resumed his pacing as he became angry all over again, "Oh, haha brother! Very amusing, keeping me locked in a cage like a damnable dog!" Spindly fingers gnarled back into his hair to tug at an abused scalp, "I need a case! I need food for the ravenous beast that is my mind! John!" He announced suddenly, and spinning on his heel to face the sandy blonde who stared up in confusion.
"John, I'm begging you." Sherlock beseeched him as he fell to his knees in front of the doctor with hands on the other man's knees. He stared up at John imploringly and John found it hard to form a coherent thought.
Sherlock had never begged in his life, or at least, not in front of John. It was a beautiful sight to see the genius on his knees, looking so out of place in the gloomy halls, like an angel fallen and entreating help. The doctor could only look into those eyes and promise anything.
Sea green eyes were full of anguish and melancholy, but there was a flicker of hope. A hope that John would say yes and they would smuggle out of the Manor and its drab walls, and Sherlock would be back in the real 221, in flat B, where he belonged.
It seemed like an eternity of eyes locking but the spell was broken as John closed his eyes and nodded once. The defeat was accompanied with a sigh as Sherlock shot to his feet, grinning like a fool.
"I swear, if I go to jail for this, I'm kicking your arse." The doctor groaned as he came to his feet. Better now than never.
"Oh, John, I could kiss you!" The detective cried, not paying much attention to John's words. "Oh, what the hell." And he grabbed for the doctor's face with slender fingers, gripping tight and tugging his face close to crush his lips against his forehead.
"I'll make sure you don't go to jail. I can deduce that I'll only end up caged again, without a willing participant in my experiments. Which you are, of course. Therefore, I need you free, and un-jailed." The detective released his doctor and turned back to the wall with a flourish, beginning to talk to himself.
The kiss only confused John even more as he sat frozen in place, staring at a point on the wall past Sherlock's legs, though he wasn't really seeing it. The curly haired man busied himself by gathering papers and certain books. He thrust the lot into John's hands, and then picked up a few volumes himself, tucking them beneath his arm and then looking expectantly towards John.
The doctor blinked, and glanced down to his arms crammed full of things he couldn't decipher, and then back to Sherlock's face which slowly grew more impatient by the moment. When his brows began to furl towards each other and the cupid's bow began to turn downwards, John gave up.
"Alright, alright. How am I supposed to get you out of here? We're locked in, and you're technically a patient."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and gave an exasperated sigh. "It's a low key facility, and under-staffed. I think we can manage a break out." Sherlock spoke as if he were explaining something to a child… In a rude way.
If John could have tossed his hands up in surrender, he would have, but his hands were full so he settled on a raising of his brows and a nod that said it all. He was used to being bullied around by his favorite sociopath, and he took everything with a grain of salt. The detective would make up for it in the end. Eventually. Maybe.
John moved to the door, and gave three loud knocks and heard the dragging og the bolt and the door swing open. John turned on his 'Doctor Face', "Thanks so much for waiting! I'm going to be taking my patient to the courtyard for a little fresh air and some therapy."
Before the young man could respond, the duo were whisking off down the corridor and Sherlock's longer legs placed him in front and the man seemed to remember exactly how to get out of this place from only being led through once. He never ceased to amaze the doctor. Thinking about being amazed brought him full circle, and he was back to wondering how the hell this seemed to be so easy.
Back down the flight of stairs, and pure luck followed them past the sealed doors and into the sterile waiting room. There was a little sign on the glass door that said simply 'Tea'.
John looked to his watch, and saw that he had only been maybe an hour in the place, and he was glad to see his taxi still waiting. The sign was clicked off, and the driver appeared to be napping as they approached the car. Clambering inside made the driver wake with a start, and he jabbered for a moment before glancing into his rearview mirror.
"Oh, hey! I know that bloke! Ride's on the house; that man saved my cousin!"
That was music to John's ears, though the silence that followed the ride back was strange. He was used to silence, as Sherlock wouldn't speak for days on end, but at least in those times there was the sound of the violin. John admitted that he had missed the sound of violins the short time he'd been away with his sister. The screech of the strings accompanied with the gibbering of a genius was one of the things John truly cherished.
The ride was of a decent length, and uneventful. Sherlock made busy by staring out the window, and John did the same thing. It was raining by the time they arrived at their flat, though that was no surprise as it was the season for it in London. The detective wasted no time and burst out of the doors and nearly sprinted up the steps to the flat. He disappeared inside, and John allowed himself a chuckle as he thanked the cabbie with a tip and got out of the vehicle himself.
Before he even opened the door to the flat, he heard Sherlock shouting his name and sounding panicked. "John!"
He raced up stairs, nearly skidding to a halt as he entered the common area, "What's wrong?! What's happened?"
Sherlock stood in front of the refrigerator looking perturbed and holding an empty container with a blue lid. "It's empty. Did you eat it again?"
"Of course not! I bet Mrs. Hudson cleaned while we were both away." John deposited the books he carried in the pile Sherlock had made on the counter.
"Damn that woman!"
"Sherlock! Don't be a prick about our landlady." And then his mobile began to ring. He knew who it was before he even looked. The screen was lit up and read 'Mycroft' across it. It was one of the few numbers that John had programmed into the device.
John didn't tell Sherlock he was going to his room, and the doctor kept an ear open for the sounds of Sherlock leaving as he answered the call as if he had been expecting it.
"Good morning, Mycroft."
'I am very disappointed.'
"You and I both, but I bet it's for different reasons."
Mycroft continued as if John hadn't spoken. 'The point of that exercise was for Sherlock to relearn his boundaries. You allowed him outside of those boundaries, and now it will be harder to keep a handle on him.'
"He's not a dog, or an exotic pet. He's a person, and he's my best friend. I couldn't let him sit in there until you decided to let him out."
'Sherlock doesn't have friends.'
"Well, I am one." John snapped back bitterly, "And he begged me to let him come home. Got on his knees, and begged me."
Mycroft was quiet on the other end of the line, and John would have thought he hung up if it weren't for the breathing he heard. 'I see. An unusual turn of events. Keep him in the flat for a week, at the very least. I will speak to Lestrade and see how soon Sherlock can start meddling again.' And the line went dead in his hand.
He heard Sherlock in the common area, throwing papers and smashing plastic containers against the walls. Everything was as it should be, though John knew the next week would be basically unbearable for both men. He sent a quick text to Sarah at hospital to let her know that Sherlock-related things were keeping him from work this week. Just as he sent the message, his phone shivered in his hand. A text.
Come downstairs.-SH
John rolled his eyes as he shoved the mobile into his pocket and made his way to where Sherlock was.
"Why do you text me when I'm in the same building?"
"I didn't want to yell for you."
"You do it anyway, why—You know what? Never mind. What do you want?"
For the first time since doctor met detective, the dark haired man looked nervous. He twisted elegant hands around each other and stared at the floor looking like a very awkward and very tall child wanting to ask for a sweet, but thinking they're be scolded for it. It took a few moments for the detective to finally look up, eyes locking with John's.
"Company."
Sherlock could have asked for the Royal Crown, and it would have been more expected than a request for his company. John was shocked, though he tried not to let it show. He knew it did anyway, in a thousand subtle ways that he knew Sherlock picked up on with the way his eyes flickered over his form. The sandy haired man could only nod, and offer a wide smile.
"Of course I'll keep you company." He moved to the recliner and took a seat, placing his phone on the table beside him. "I spoke to Mycroft."
Sherlock had moved to perch himself in the middle of the sofa, sitting on the balls of his feet with his elbows on his knees and his hands in front of his mouth. It was a favorite thinking position. He arched a brow towards John, to ask with his face what he couldn't be bothered to vocalize.
"And he asked me—well, he more demanded it, that I keep you in the flat for another week, or so… I stuck my neck out for you and I would greatly appreciate it if you tried to stay here, until Mycroft speaks to Lestrade."
Sherlock looked like a child on the verge of a tantrum, and John added quickly, "Holiday! Think of it as a holiday."
"I just had a holiday! Of solitude!" The dark haired man snaps as his fingers twist over one another as a sign of anxiety.
"Well, this one gets to be with me."
He thought about that for a moment, and his fingers stopped their gnarling and he moved to sit with his legs crossed under him. "Acceptable."
John was astonished that Sherlock had agreed so readily, though he knew the next week would be nothing but irritating, for both men.
"You might not be the most stimulating company, but I prefer you over anyone else, John."
The compliment, thinly veiled behind insult, made him blush lightly and he knew just when Sherlock noticed it by the way the detective's lips curled into a small smile.
"So…" John prompted, to change the subject, "What shall we do? Maybe a film?"
"Ah, yes. Riveting. I had something else in mind; something that you can help me with."
The doctor narrowed his eyes in distrust, "What sort of thing?"
"An experiment," John opened his mouth to protest and Sherlock hurried to speak, "Quite harmless. Investigating social behavior and all you have to do is be in my company and let me observe you."
"Observe me how?"
"I'm already observing how you seem distrusting to let me observe you doing routine things. I would tell you my experiment, but I'd like it to be a blind study. I'm hoping you'll forget that I asked to observe you."
That silenced John, and he could only stare at Sherlock before he sighed and grabbed for the news paper that sat on the table. He unfolded it with a sharp snap and did not raise his eyes for a long while.
This gave Sherlock plenty of opportunity to observe John. He noticed how jittery the other man was and the detective knew that his friend could feel his eyes on him, scraping over every inch of his body to find every tiny tell he could.
Sherlock took no notes and made no comments about anything he saw. He politely turned his eyes away when John lifted his, and thus began a dance between them. Sherlock would stare and John would try to catch him in the act, but to no avail. Eventually, Sherlock stood from his spot and began to wander around the common area, and then he slipped into his room.
It didn't take long for the doctor to realize he was alone. He heaved a sigh of relief as he folded his paper and set it on the arm of the chair before rubbing his hands across his face, unknowingly smudging the ink from his fingers over his cheeks and chin. It was almost exhausting to know that someone was watching him, even in a benign way. Every hair on his body would stand at attention when he felt the weight of a sea green gaze and he would feel a need to itch.
It was early afternoon, and John couldn't hear any noises in the flat. It was too early for Sherlock to sleep, and God knew the man didn't nap. If John hadn't stumbled in on the man asleep on the couch on evening, he would have thought he never slept. It was a wonder that a mind so quick and buzzing could afford any rest at all.
It was peculiar to live with a brilliant mind, as the mind in discussion did some very unorthodox things. It took a few months for John to grow accustomed to the random little containers filled with strange things, all neatly labeled since 'The Incident'. He was glad for his love of music, too, since the sound of strings could start at any time of the day.
There were other things, smaller things that John could never understand. The way Sherlock would pace; one, two, three, four, turn, but only three times before he would pause, and stare. Or, the number of eggs he would eat, regardless of his hunger. Or, the time he spent in the shower; exactly seventeen minutes, to the second.
John realized with a little flutter in his chest that he might have spent more time observing the detective than he thought. He wondered who was paying attention to whom, and how closely. The doctor remembered a time in the beginning where he wouldn't have noticed a table unless he needed to use it. Now, he was picking up on the littlest things, and not just about his eerily quiet flat mate.
There was a noise, an ear splitting shriek of strings and John cringed as he listened to Sherlock try and find the right key to play in. There was a little more scratching and then a long, low pull of the bow to begin one of the peppier tunes he's heard his friend play. It was folksy and it made John think of dancing. He smiled to himself as the music got closer, and closer until it burst into the common area only to suddenly change to something more solemn; a nocturne to soothe and make the mind pensive.
John couldn't pull his eyes away from Sherlock as the man all but danced into the room. His eyes were front and anyone could see the thoughts bubbling within, and his steps were light and careful, almost in time with the music he played. The man was simply mesmerizing, and the sandy haired man had no idea how long he had been watching, but Sherlock eventually paused in his playing to look directly at John, with the violin still between shoulder and cheek.
He smiled, so suddenly in took breath from John's chest and he wondered why the hell a smile affected him so much. Sherlock took the bow away and dropped the violin to his side, holding it delicately by the neck.
"Your face."
John felt a blush race up his neck immediately and he wanted to kick himself. "What?" It was the only response he could come up with.
Sherlock gave a little chuckle and moved to set his instrument on the sofa before he moved closer to John and his dumbstruck face.
John couldn't move, and he barely knew what to think as his friend extended elegant hands to cup his cheek, while the other braced at his neck. He was so close as the slender thumb rubbed over his cheek and all John could smell was the spice of Sherlock's sweat and the sweet scent of the herbal shampoo he used. John had never the impulsive kind, and if he had been, the military had beaten it out of him long ago, so he had no excuse for what came next.
As quick as he could, John moved his face the last few inches and pressed dry lips to Sherlock's surprisingly soft cupid's bow, and time stood still. Neither of them could draw breath as their noses touched and their lips melded and unfocused eyes locked from such a short distance.
Neither John, nor Sherlock had any idea what to do next. Well, John knew exactly what came next, as he had had his lips pressed against quite a few others in his time, but when it came to the mop of curls in front of him, he was at a complete loss. The fact that Sherlock hadn't pulled away seemed to be a good sign and the moment John thought about pulling away, it seemed his friend had other ideas.
The fingers on John's neck grew firmer as Sherlock brought their mouths as close as possible and parting his lips to let his tongue snake out to touch at the doctor's lower lip. The wet warmth thrilled John to his very toes and his eyes fluttered shut as the tension eased out of his body and they began a light and tentative kissing session.
The touches were innocent, but so full of fire. John lifted his hands to touch at the surprising smoothness of the detectives face as they both cupped cheeks and nibbled lips and swallowed sighs. It was too soon that Sherlock pulled away with only a light blush on his cheeks and Caribbean eyes full of careful fire. On the absolute opposite end of apparent arousal, John felt like a horny teenager aching for another clumsy touch and fevered kiss.
"Fascinating…" Sherlock whispered as he drew John into for a kiss that was firmer than the last, and fuller of promise.
John was surprised to feel Sherlock take the reigns as strong hands traveled over his body. Knowledgeable fingers caressed over muscle and tendon and fat alike and where he touched left a trail of fire. His head was muddled and his vision was cloudy, though distantly John felt that this was strange. Painfully, he broke their mouths to gulp a breath of air that seemed to sear his lungs.
"I'm sorry—what?" John mumbled from swollen lips that ached for more.
Sherlock laughed, and swiped his thumb over John's cheek again, not releasing him, "You have ink on your face. I was going to wipe it away, but you had other ideas."
Suddenly, John was mortified. Of course it was ink on his face; what else could it have been? It was silly to think that Sherlock could have any attraction to anyone, let alone John. His body responded, like any humans body would. That was all, or so John kept telling himself.
Sherlock seemed to think the inner turmoil of his friend was a funny thing, because he gave a bemused smile as he leaned in again, this time to press soft lips to the corner of John's mouth in a surprising display of affection, but still he didn't speak.
The silence was becoming strained, and if Sherlock knew anything about human behavior…
"I'm so, so sorry. I don't know what came over me, I know I shouldn't have, and if I wanted to, I should have asked but you were-"
"John, shut up." Sherlock held a finger to his friend's lips even as John's eyes grew wide, and his blush grew darker, "I lament saying that I had not been expecting that, though I knew the nature of your emotion towards me. Though I will say that I did not mind it. I would even go as far as saying that I enjoyed it. Immensely."
And with those words, Sherlock removed his finger, and replaced it with his lips and an open mouth. John was still shocked, but he retained enough of his mind to taste tobacco on his friend's tongue, and he knew Sherlock had been sneaking cigarettes again.
The kiss was over all too soon as Sherlock pulled away with a tender bite to John's lip that made the other man shudder as his brain fought to think in a proper line.
"The nature of our relationship has always been unclear to me, though I know how you feel now… I don't necessarily understand it, but I know that it's there. I'm glad to have clarified this today." Sherlock straightened his tall frame out, now towering over John where he sat.
"You may correct me if I'm wrong, but there have been few who crave my attention, but there are even fewer who choose to… feel the complex number of emotions that you do for me. Put simply, you will always be the nurse who loves me."
"I'm not a nurse, though. I'm a doctor." This was the only response John could muster, and he stumbled over the words as if he had never spoke English in his life.
The smile that stretched across that wide mouth was worth every stupid comment in the world. Those words seemed to set in stone what Sherlock had been hinting at. "A nurse is more inclined to care for their patient."
"Oh." John had no intelligent response. Sherlock hadn't exactly professed undying love and affection, or anything for that matter, but John couldn't help but feel…relieved that he wasn't shoved away. Relived, and a little embarrassed.
"I… Uh… Thank you. Or, you're welcome… I'm not really sure." John spoke slowly as he stared down at his hands. Slowly, and with much effort, John let his eyes trail up long legs and slender torso, to the graceful neck and curly head that sat atop. The doctor swallowed past his suddenly roiling stomach.
"I, ah… Does this make it awkward now?" He asked, looking quizzical and the detective offered a small chuckle that made John feel a little silly. It was the kind of laugh that said 'oh, you poor thing'.
Sherlock took a step closer to his friend and turned his body in a graceful way as he moved to sit on the arm of John's chair. A gangling limb curled across his shoulder's as Sherlock rested comfortably against his side, threatening to slip into John's lap with the barest breath.
"Would it make you feel better if I made it awkward? I had hoped this new development would make for a very interesting week stuck in the flat. Together." He nearly purred the word, "Alone." He gave a wicked grin to John, who looked bewildered, "But, if you don't want to…"
Sherlock made to move, and John snatched his wrist, faster than he thought he could move and looked to him with hungry eyes, "I'd like nothing more." His reply was concrete.
This pleased Sherlock and he offered a little smile as he tugged his wrist away from his friend's grip, "We have all week. I'm going to go to my mind palace."
With dance like movements, Sherlock was gone, along with his violin and John was at a complete loss. He had dreamed of this moment for months, and now that it was here, he couldn't fathom a proper response.
Oh, he had responses. Carnal, animal and forceful responses, but all of them seemed to lack the finesse he felt Sherlock deserved from a possible partner. There was the matter, also, of Sherlock acting completely out of character. He was so un-Sherlock-y just then that John's head was still opaque and cloudy.
He had claimed he had research; that he had wanted to observe him. Could this be all part of the grander scheme? The arousal was gone with the knowledge that Sherlock might just be doing this to toy with him. He was a tool, after all, no matter how fond the detective seemed to be of him. John had come to this revelation earlier, though it still stung.
With the fantasy quelled, John stood from his chair and drug his feet towards the stairs that led to his bedroom. It was early afternoon, and it was a lovely day but the doctor simply did not have the energy. He felt drained, and depressed, and hollow. Premature heartbreak.
As he collapsed on his bed, face burying into his pillow, he thought of how pathetic he was, and decided than when he awoke from his nap, his outlook would have changed.
Fat chance, that.
-TBC-
A/N: I always end with sleeping. Anyway, chapter one! Of…I have no idea how many. Please let me know what you think! This was my first exercise in Sherlock fanfiction.