"Sherlock, you don't look too well." A gaze so scrutinizing it can be felt by the receiver, who snaps to rid himself off it.
"I'm not, but I'm not sick either. Just leave me alone."
A tension growing.
"You should at least let me-"
"No."
"Yes."
Eyes locking, a short battle of wills that was given up, not lost.
"Fine."
Feet shuffling, floor boards creaking. The sofa giving a huff. Knees hitting the floor, a groan. A shirt button being undone, another one, fabric sliding over skin and two sets of carefully controlled breaths.
"This will feel-"
"-cold, yes. Just get on with it."
The hints of intimacy to the clinical touches do not go unnoticed by the trained eye and the rhythm of the heart under the stethoscope quickens. The doctor notes, the floor creaks. A shirt cuff being unbuttoned, fabric sliding up, touch even more personal. A slightly ripping sound, regular huffs, silence. The strong heartbeat echoes through temples and headphones. A throat being cleared.
"Your blood pressure is a little high."
The tension from before suddenly pressingly urgent again.
"So is yours."
The double entendre of those words isn't completely lost, merely ignored.
"The state of my blood pressure won't affect your physical health."
Speaking his own native language: "It isn't a coincidence that we both have racing hearts, goose bumps and dilated pupils", and then, remembering, added in the native language of the other; "watching your erection grow as you touch me is making me aroused."