Science, Jawn! By Divy
"Sherlock, wh-what are you doing?" John asked perplexed. He was unable to understand his friend's sudden decision to stand across the living room of 221B
and undress himself. He unbuttoned his purple work shirt. Slowly, his lean hands worked their way down the line of buttons. Relieving them of their torture. John could see of course, that the buttons were constantly put to the test. That was the case with all his shirts, and that made Sherlock even more appealing to the very straight John Watson. But just as the buttons insisted on holding on, so did John.
"Wait a moment, John," Sherlock replied. His voice was distant and distracted as he ran into his room and shut the door. John obviously, obedient as always sat in confusion on his usual chair and waited patiently.
A couple of minutes later, out he emerged from his room, dressed in his white sheet. "Appointment with the Queen again?" John asked amused by his flat-mate's sudden change of wardrobe. Five minutes ago, Sherlock was appropriately dressed in a shirt, trousers and his blue silk robe. He stared at John for a good several minutes before pouncing up and unbuttoning his shirt. But here a white sheet that worked its way around his lanky body was now merely adorning him, hiding all secrets, but threatening to reveal everything with a single accidental trip or unfolding of its many layers.
"Queen? Oh! Mycroft is tending to some issues regarding the Americans today I'm afraid. He shall not be providing us with the entertainment you so wish to see. Fortunately however, before I could tell you why this is occurring, would you mind joining me?" Sherlock explained, then asked John with a straight, purely analytical face.
"What? Join you? If you've joined a nudist movement or something, allow me to find a new flat, thanks. This isn't happening, mate!" John scowled.
Sherlock looked offended, then his face took up softer features. "Please John. For me. Just once," he pleaded.
"I can't believe this," John replied, on the brink of giving in. He was aghast by the detective's weird ways. Well, Sherlock was always know to be eccentric, but this was a first and therefore John had no idea how to handle it as there was no precedence to it. And those golden blue eyes staring at him with an intense plea did not help his decision take a more logical approach. Instead, because Sherlock Holmes always had his way with his John, John scuttled into his own room and emerged out stark naked.
Sherlock beamed at the spectacle before him. John attempted to cover his body with his palms, but it did not take the great Sherlock Holmes to figure out that it would never suffice. Instead, John elected to ask Sherlock again, with an immense frown, "What on earth am I doing this stupid thing for, Sherlock?"
"Science, John," came the casual reply, as Sherlock dropped his white sheet only to reveal the barren terrains of his own body. And something about the twinkle in his eyes and the bounce in his actions told John that this would not be the end to Sherlock's version of science.
Part 2
Sherlock and John were out looking for someone from the Network. "God, Sherlock, it's bloody freezing out here!" John exclaimed. His voice raspy and quivering as his lips failed to garner the warmth needed for fluent speech.
"Hold on, John, she said she'll be here!" Sherlock replied, unwavering beneath his Belstaff coat.
"It's been an hour Sherlock! We've been up and down this street 12 times!" John further chattered into the cold air.
"Are you cold John?" Sherlock asked, plain and unconcerned.
"You're fucking asking me now?" John cursed and hissed at Sherlock.
"I am sorry, John, but I need this information tonight or Lestrade may not be able to catch our man by dawn! In which case, by noon, he'd be halfway across Europe!" Sherlock spoke louder, his baritone voice stretching a few octaves.
John knew the significance of this wait, but he wasn't sure who to be angry with: the girl from the Network or his blooming Sherlock. "Damn it, but it's so cold, why didn't you tell her to meet us at Baker St?"
"Never show your enemies where you live, John. Most of all never let anyone from the network know where you live. One, because they'll expect themselves to be invited in for a cuppa, and two, because if one of them was to find better utility with our enemies, our flat would become, as you would say, baddie central."
"Right, okay. But I am not letting go of the fact that it's a blizzard that you're putting me through!" stated John, defeated.
"To pass the dull boredom that is probably numbing your brain, from mentioning the obviously tumbling temperature about 67 times in the space of an hour, how about we play a little game? Help me in my experiment maybe?" Sherlock queried.
John was dumbfounded. "If you ask me to take my clothes off again, you arse, I'll fucking haunt you from my hypothermic grave!"
Sherlock broke his casual demeanor and erupted in a deep, yet melodic laughter. "Oh my dear, dear John, I may be more sensible than you give me credit to be. Do trust me, step closer," he said as he opened his coat wide, spreading it out to fit another, slightly smaller individual.
John gaped at him, inching forward; he turned his back against Sherlock and stepped back into the taller man's coat. Sherlock stepped closer just enough that his chest grazed John's back. He wrapped his coat around John and sighed; a sound of relief that John should share because of the warmth.
"Sherlock, why? I mean what is this?" John asked quietly.
Sherlock looked down into John's ashen hair and breathed in, hoping that John would have understood, but he simply said, "Science John," as he smiled a sadder smile into the distance.
John knew full well it wasn't science. He looked straight ahead and wished he hadn't turned his back towards Sherlock, so that Sherlock could see the peaceful comfort etched on John's face. "Thanks, Sherlock," John whispered.
Sherlock perked up just slightly. Maybe, just maybe, he knew. Maybe, his John knew.
Part 3
"Sherlock, where is my white jumper?"
"Why do you insist on asking me where your laundry is, John? I hardly notice where the clothes go. On a helpful note, it probably got stolen by a vagabond when I threw it out the window yesterday after it had caught fire," Sherlock stated as he plucked on his violin while sitting on his usual chair.
"What? Fire?!" John asked perplexed as he stood there in a flannel shirt, buttoned up right to the collar.
"Bunsen burners, John, it happens, it was either your jumper or the flat. I figured the jumper would at least not give you a heart-attack," Sherlock sighed.
"For godsakes," John turned on his heels towards his room, but stopped just in time to notice. "Sherlock, don't mind me asking, but pajama pants and your Belstaff are hardly a good combination for the inside of our flat, so why?"
Sherlock stared into John, seeming offended. Sherlock Holmes, was however not one to bother about trivial comments such as the latest fashion do's and don'ts, and yet his face was various shades of red.
"I don't need to be the world's only consulting detective to realize you're hiding something there, Sherlock, get it off," John walked closer.
"I am not hiding anything John, and asking me to undress is hardly a courteous thing to do," Sherlock pulled his coat around tighter.
"Sherlock, don't make me! Did you hurt yourself in the fire or something?" John asked alarmed as he tried to grab the coat.
"No, John, don't, I am not burnt, stop touching my coat!" Sherlock swatted his friend's hand away.
"Sherlock, stop being a child!" John yelled, as he yanked the coat open to reveal something he had not expected to see in a million years. "What are y- Why are you wearing my supposedly burnt and flung out jumper?"
"I was measuring the rise in centigrade of body temperature according to thickness of attire, with and without layers. Science, John," came the almost defeated reply.
"Alright, and you couldn't have just asked?" John gawked.
"You love your jumpers, so I figured you wouldn't let go of one," said Sherlock.
"True, but my jumpers always turn up again, don't they? They always come back to me," John smiled wryly.
Sherlock's galactic eyes shined bright as he clutched at his John's jumper knowingly.
Part 4
Sherlock stood by John's bed watching the rise and fall of the doctor's chest. He calculated the intensity of the movement required to wake John up. He inched closer, eyes sharp. He rested on knee on the bed and lurched himself up to put another knee on. John shifted, but remained asleep. Sherlock navigated the sheets and kneeled awkwardly by John's chest. He watched. The sudden awkward dip in the mattress suddenly awoke John who simply squinted into the brooding angular face of his Sherlock, "S-science?"
"Umm hmm," Sherlock hummed, eyes still fixed at John's sleepy face.
"Alright then, hop in if you get tired," John replied, and closed his eyes again, awaiting the lanky figure to join him. A few moments later, it did.
Part 5
John and Sherlock had quarreled about the way Sherlock had treated an elderly couple that had come to the flat for a consultation.
"It is hardly appropriate for you to point out that the man has been having an affair with the woman's sister for the last 37 years. It is even worse when you congratulate him on his successful affair. You're not stupid, but you are thick as a rock!" John yelled.
"Pointing out the facts and recognizing effort, isn't bad! I did give them a lawyer's contact should they need it," Sherlock defended himself.
"Should they need it? Sherlock, they were practically running to that lawyer after they were finished here," John mentioned.
"Running, with their double hip replacements? Logic, John, it's not that hard!"
"Oh you know what I mean! How do you expect to not be clobbered if you're going to behave like a complete twit all the time?" John asked, sarcasm lacing his voice like hemlock.
"You don't 'clobber me', even when I am at my twittiest?" Sherlock teased.
"How do you expect to be liked if you're an arse?" John asked.
"You like me," Sherlock stated.
"Well, there are days I wished I never took up the offer to live with you and the embarrassment is only part of the reason," John argued.
And with that, Sherlock stood up, "Well, it's still not too late to break the deal. I'll be out; you can clear up with no obstruction. Here's to hoping you find yourself the opposite of an arse," Sherlock hissed and stormed out the door.
"Sher-," John managed half a word before Sherlock slammed the door behind him.
Five hours later, and after 16 phone calls and 34 text messages to Sherlock, John sat by the fireplace, hoping his Sherlock would return so that they could talk things out. Sherlock had never stormed out like that before. He always took the arguments as a chance to practice his sarcasm, not like he needed any. It was an ordinary ordeal between the both of them. John would go as far as to say that it was just another 'domestic'.
An hour later, six hours since he left, Sherlock emerged into the flat. Sullen, but seeming accomplished, he heaped himself into his chair, eyes not wavering from the ground.
John merely watched and decided not to say anything till Sherlock decided to talk.
Ten minutes, not a word. The detective sat there, eyes closed, hands in a steeple and still fully dressed. John watched, but the silence ached, so he spoke, "Another case? Done?"
"Hmm…" came the distracted reply.
"Sherlock," John called out.
"Yes, John?" Sherlock queried, remaining in his stance.
"I- Uh- I am sorry, about what I said, I didn't mean it, I don't regret this, us, I mean," John said apologetically.
"Shut up, John, I am organizing an experiment," Sherlock hushed John.
"No, but seriously though, sorry," John pestered.
It was so like John to apologize for something Sherlock's actions had made him say. Sherlock sat there deep in thought devising the perfect procedure to tell John that he was the sorry one.
He stood up and walked straight to John and stood there towering.
"Wh- What?" John asked, standing up, mostly out of courtesy.
Sherlock smirked, grabbed John by the sides and kissed him.
John inhaled deeply, sharply, and kissed back. He was shocked, relieved, and almost expectant.
When they parted, John opened his glued eyes and stared at Sherlock's questioning aqua. "S- Science?" he asked.
Sherlock smiled genuinely, wide, his cheeks spreading the length of his face, he pulled John closer and this time, hugged him instead. He held on tight.
John wrapped his arms around the thin form and also held on. He had never felt so belonged. They fit into each other's arms like parts of carefully carved puzzle pieces.
"No, my dear Doctor Watson, this is because I love you," Sherlock muttered into John's jumper, his deep voice vibrating against John's shoulder.
They stayed in each other's arms for several moments. Sherlock's science procedures had worked.