John wasn't exactly sure what to call this relationship he had with Sherlock. He cooked for him, cleaned for him, jumped through hoops and put himself in danger on a daily basis. Constantly, suggestive comments were dropped, left and right by people who observed him. Sherlock would insist on introducing John as his 'friend', even after John had cut in and corrected him. He wasn't a 'friend'. He was a colleague.
Sure, Sherlock was attractive. His obsession with cases and his quick-thinking were remarkable. It was impossible not to be attracted to him, even if he was an antisocial git. Currently, Sherlock was sprawled out on the bed, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, having just gotten out of the shower in a rush, thoughts assaulting his overactive mind. He had called (or rather, yelled) for John to come into his bedroom, leaving John to stand awkwardly by the doorway, eyeing Sherlock's pale, long legs.
John could still see the moisture on Sherlock's skin as the young detective folded his hands in front of him, thumbs resting against his mouth in a mock-prayer position as he thought.
"He shoved a dozen roses down the man's throat. Why would he do that? It's clever. Romantic. Is it romantic? It might be."
John nodded mutely, focused on the slender curve of Sherlock's throat as he moved.
"Clearly it's a message, but to whom? And why? If the victim was the killer's lover, he might've treated the body with more care, don't you think? But the body was just a tool for the message, really..." Sherlock mused, wetting his lips with his tongue, making John flush and swallow thickly.
"So...eh...Sherlock." John interrupted him, catching his attention as he sat down on the bed beside him, fiddling with his sleeves. He leaned over him, looking down at him, studying the way Sherlock's bangs clung to his face from moisture.
"Yes? What is it? Something else to add?" Sherlock questioned, brows furrowing as he studied his partner's face, trying to puzzle out what was wrong. "You're sweating. Why are you sweating?"
"It's hot in here." John said quickly, reaching up to brush a stray hair from Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock didn't resist the touch, but he didn't lean into it either, watching John's fingers.
"No it isn't. I'm practically naked and I barely feel a chill." Sherlock corrected, noting the way John pursed his lips the way he did when he was annoyed.
Shifting a bit, John leaned down, his breath caressing Sherlock's face. Sherlock could smell a touch of alcohol on his breath - he'd taken a shot of whiskey before coming up here. But he wasn't drunk. Why did Watson feel the need for liquid courage now of all times? Very peculiar.
"Sherlock...are you...ehm. Busy right now?" John asked, awkward. His whole posture was tense, shoulders bunched up, one hand on either side of Sherlock's head. Sherlock merely stared at him, brows raising.
"I called you up to work on a case, didn't I?" Sherlock reminded, wondering how on earth John could forget so quickly. He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the press of Watson's lips against his own, brief - and then it hit him.
"That's it!" Sherlock said suddenly, sitting up quickly and knocking John back off the bed in a careless tumble, nearly losing the towel around his waist in his excitement. "Of course. It's a romantic invitation, clearly. It must be. And I think..." Sherlock rambled on, ignoring John as he paced back and forth.
John groaned a little, his tailbone aching from where he'd hit the ground. Flushed with embarrassment and shame now, he stood, rubbing his temples lightly and moving to get Sherlock some clothes. When Sherlock paused, clearly looking to John for input. Sighing, John smoothed out his coat, turning to Sherlock with a forced smile.
"Sorry...can you say that again? I wasn't listening."