Pairing: Sherlock/John

AN: John's display of affection comes out of the blue. Or does it? It's possible Sherlock's been a complete twat. From Sherlock's POV.

Disclaimer: Moffat is the man. Sherlock does not belong to me.

I'm basking, like a lizard. In the glow from the fireplace, in the success of the hunt. But mostly in the (temporary) calm. The case is solved, the boredom is yet to set in. It's the eye of the storm; the moment of perfect silence before the second movement begins, where every instrument in the orchestra is still. Within minutes the itch will begin again. Within hours my brain will be clawing at my skull like fingernails on the inside of a coffin. But for now, homeostasis reigns.

The fire is warm and my stomach full. The telly is dreary, but that's alright: it's John's favourite show (CSI, and tonight I'm not even going to shout out any spoilers). John shares the sofa with me (not our usual configuration on the sitting room furniture, but not entirely without precedent). I have one leg folded beneath me and my toes are touching his thigh. He hasn't pushed them away so I'm leaving them there (obviously I'm entitled to a larger percentage of the sofa, regardless, due to my increased length).

A remarkably good decision, making John my flatmate. He's far more reasonable than any of the previous ones. Than most people, really, the way he accommodates my idiosyncrasies. And surprisingly useful, with his medical knowledge, intrepid disposition and impressive aim with a hand gun (today being the most recent example of that last skill). Fearless John. Reasonable, fearless, smart (for a normal person) John. (And I must admit, there's something terribly gratifying about having such an appreciative audience on hand, though I'd never tell him that.) The world would be a much more tolerable place if everyone were just a little more like John.

We are twenty-three minutes into the program when he puts his hand on my foot. I assume he's about to push it away, tell me to get my cold toes off him, but the warm hand just rests there and his thumb begins to lightly stroke my instep.

I quiver ever so slightly, like a bow held aloft in a quaver rest.

And then I do the only thing I can. I begin to analyse, to examine, to question.

My own reactions first: increased pulse rate, increased respiration rate. A tingle that starts from that tiny point of contact between us and runs all the way up my spine.

And him. John. Reasonable and fearless John, just sitting there like it's the most natural thing in the world to meddle with my biometrics in such a fashion. What does he mean by this sudden display of—affection? Attraction? Is it sudden? I dive for my hard drive's recycle bin.

Last Wednesday: he started making my evening cup of tea without being asked. (Inconclusive. Everybody makes everybody tea. Except me, I suppose.)

Sunday afternoon: sat next to me on the sofa instead of in the armchair. Has done this on three out of the last five opportunities, including tonight. (Also inconclusive.)

Three nights ago: removed my headphones and covered me with a blanket when I fell asleep on the sofa listening to a podcast on forensic pharmacology. (I suppose this could be considered particularly thoughtful).

This morning: fingers lingered over-long on mine when passing me a cup of coffee. (Was probably just ensuring it wouldn't spill.)

Earlier this evening: used himself as a human shield to protect me from potential gunfire, dispatched my would-be murderer and, upon confirming I was unharmed, embraced me fiercely and whispered hoarsely by my ear that he couldn't bear to lose me...

It's possible I've been a complete twat.

I uncover more discarded information. Like corpses in a river, the abandoned thoughts come bobbing to the surface.

I've pictured him before, I realise—as my John—sharing my bed as well as my flat. But I dismissed the idea, flicked it away like thoughts of sleep during a case. Why? Due to two previously-formed deductions: 1. John is heterosexual (well, almost as heterosexual as he insists) and 2. Sherlock Holmes should not have relationships. For obvious reasons. I can't stand other people, and generally they're not prepared to put up with me either, even when there is a mutual attraction.

Does this second deduction hold true? Does it require re-evaluation? Even if I reach the conclusion that it is erroneous with regards to John (and I'm fast approaching the suspicion that it is), how can I be certain that's what he wants? Why does simply asking him seem like such a ludicrous proposition? What would I even say? "Fancy a shag?", "Does this mean you're my boyfriend?", "So you're good with dating a sociopath, then?"

I'm reasonably certain some (all?) of those are the wrong thing to say. Human relationships are a minefield I fear to navigate. So many ways to put a foot wrong.

Foot.

The sensation of his thumb gently grazing my sole is simply glorious. Androgens, serotonin, dopamine: a heady cocktail. It's possible my mental clarity is somewhat compromised, that this is not the best state of mind for analysis and deduction.

Warm fire, full belly, John so close I can smell him. (He smells like wool and Earl Grey and Baker Street: like home). I watch his fingers as they move idly across my skin.

Reason takes a step back and something else—instinct?—fills the space. I rest my head on his shoulder and breathe him in. John. My John.

AN: I thought I had run out of inspiration for fanfic, but I've just fallen head over heels for BBC Sherlock and had to express it somehow! This is my first Sherlock fic and my first decent go at first person and present tense. I'm very grateful for any and all feedback :)