The wind has picked up this evening, and it's begun to rain. He suspects we're in for a downpour.
Inside the flat, it's warm and cozy. The fire burns, there's a pot of tea and some biscuits sitting on the table between us. The lamps lit, giving off enough light to read and his feet feel cozy in the heavy socks his mom knit.
Sherlock is sitting in the chair across from him. Fingers steepled against his lips in, what John calls, thinking mode. Long legs splayed out; his purple dressing gown laid off to the side. As if he doesn't feel the chill in the air.
John wonders what he's thinking. Is it the experiment on the kitchen table, which chemicals to combine, which to add first?
Or is he thinking about the anger John felt earlier in the evening, exploding about the mess on the table?
No!
None of those are relevant to the deductive brain of this beautiful, although skinny man.
It's got to be he's thinking about the jewelry robbery last week. Detective Inspector asked him to join with the police force to solve this case and Sherlock rushed out the door. Forgetting his partner, namely a short stocky fellow called John Watson. He quickly came behind, rushing down the stairs, as always, three steps in the rear of the long-legged man.
Thinking about scaling the steps to the house two at a time, surveying each room with a cursory glance and in his superior tone, "Its the cleaning woman. Don't you people even think?" and with a flurry of his great coat, he walks out.
"A waste of time, John. The police do not think."
Maybe he's thinking about dinner tonight. Does he ask to bring in take away or do we cook?
What are you thinking, John?
Are you saying we because Sherlock would think to ask for food?
No, himself and only himself would be doing the preparing or ordering in.
While the curly haired man sits in that chair, thinking.
Johns paper has fluttered to his lap, and he begins to think-what would those hands, those long fingers do. Do to himself, he's thinking.
That long, lean body splayed out on his bed, naked, while he's thinking, picturing-.
John, what kind of thinking is this? Those lips, as he looks at them and thinks about-.
Sherlock separates his fingers and lays them on his lap. His lips form that smirk, the typical one when he knows what someone else is thinking.
He cannot have deduced what runs through Johns' head, what thinking process he's using. No, he cannot!
What a specific organ is thinking, tightening itself up, and right now is hiding under the newspaper John has carefully placed on his lap.
Lazily standing up, body uncoiling, Sherlock stands, as John picks up the sports section, leaving the rest to cover his continued thinking development.
Think about the sports page. Think about your mom, John. Think anything but don't think Sherlock.
That beautiful looking man steps close to his chair, pushing the paper onto the floor, placing his long fingers on the arms, leaning down, close to his face. Breath on his face. "John," that voice a soft deep tone.
"Don't think. Just act."
And as those beautiful lips touch John's, he thinks, no he doesn't think.