1.
Sherlock was being suspicious to say the least. Granted, it would have been even worse had they been in the middle of a case, but it was weird nonetheless. John narrowed his eyes at the man who sat across from him, trying to read him in the way that Sherlock read so many others. Needless to say, it wasn't working. Sherlock displayed no signs of anything changing on his expression, save for the fact that it had emotion in it.
That emotion may have been more directed toward the omelet than John, but still. Suspicious. The fact that Sherlock was even eating in the first place was a feat of amazement, much less that he'd been the one to cook the meal. John concluded that something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
"Are you going to stare at me all day, or are you going to actually eat?" Sherlock drew John out of his thoughts, "As you so often force me to do." The last sentence was more of an unconscious grumble than a loud statement, but John could hear the pouty undertone. With a sigh, John poked at the eggs, wondering briefly if there was some sort of mould in it that his flatmate wanted to test the effects of on the human body. Sherlock huffed. "It is not poisoned." He very nearly growled, the look he gave John clearly communicating his lack of amusement.
"I'm trusting you..." John trailed off, waiting for an admission of guilt. It never came, so he took a bite, half-expecting the need to say his last words. However, what he didn't expect was the burst of flavor on his tongue. The ingredients mixed in a wondrous way-though it seemed dramatic to say, any food cooked by Sherlock was damn near nonexistent, "You can cook." It was more of a statement than anything, spoken with a full mouth whilst being surprisingly discernable.
Sherlock gave John his famous 'Of course, you incapable imbecile' look, but John was too involved with his meal to notice. That also meant he missed the brief unsure hope that flitted across Sherlock's face, which was something he would've died to see. Then, John's head snapped up, a sudden motion that still failed to startle his best friend.
"What have you done?" He kept the demanding note out of his voice, because for God's sake, Sherlock had picked up a spatula. A stern note remained, letting Sherlock know that he was not to be refused an answer. But Sherlock wasn't looking at him. Well, he was looking at John, but in a distracted fashion, grey eyes focused on John's...mouth?
"You have something..." Sherlock cleared his throat, pointing at John's face. John's tilted his head slightly in confusion. That earned him another 'Are you feeling particularly idiotic today?' stare. But John couldn't be blamed; how was he supposed to know what Sherlock's silent cues meant? Then again, he'd lived with the genius for nearly three years now, so he was used to the mysterious endings-or rather lack thereof. Sherlock made a noise of exasperation, then proceeded to lick his thumb. When he moved it toward John's face, the latter man flinched back, giving Sherlock his own brand of 'Are you mental?' glance.
"Bloody hell." Sherlock muttered, then got to his feet, leaning over the table. One hand went to the back of John's head, securing it in place. The other-with the licked thumb-came to cup John's cheek. The blonde couldn't have moved if he wanted to, his shock rendering him completely frozen. He had no idea what he should expect, because it was Sherlock. He could be needing a saliva swab. John ignored the fact that, no, that could not be obtained with a finger in favor of focusing on anything other than his flatmates glittering irises.
John barely contained a gasp when the thumb swept across his bottom lip.
Again, he had no idea what was in store, but he knew there was-there had to be-a punchline to this joke. But when John's flatmate-John's male flatmate, who he (a one-hundred percent heterosexual man) is most definitely not harbouring feelings for-does that, there has to be a reason. Especially when said flatmate is Sherlock Holmes.
"You had a bit of egg on your face." Sherlock spoke in what had to be the most blase tone possible as he pulled back. John's heart beat rapidly, and he attempted to halt the heavy flow of blood to his cheeks. In putting all of his efforts toward that cause, he missed the subtle twitch of the corner of Sherlock's lips as the raven haired detective returned to his meal.
2.
"Now would you mind telling me why, exactly, we're wandering through the park in the dead of winter?" John demanded, the biting cold increasing his irritability. He glared fruitlessly at Sherlock, who was paying no heed to the demands. Snow drifted around them in soft flurries, and it would have been beautiful...if John had been able to grab a coat before he'd been dragged out of the flat. Obviously, he hadn't, because Sherlock had grabbed his arm and yanked him out the door without warning.
An explanation was yet to be provided, and at this point, John questioned whether it would come at all. Judging by Sherlock's lack of speech, his suspicion would soon be confirmed. Despite the fact that his temper was short, John followed Sherlock down the path. Sherlock, much to John's surprise, was walking next to him rather than far ahead, as he so often did when lost in thought.
That was when John noticed that his best friend's hand was still wrapped loosely around his arm. The blonde stared at it quizzically, then glanced up at his flatmate, who didn't seem to realise what he was doing. For a brief moment, John debated leaving the hand there, but that thought was pushed to the back of his mind as soon as it crossed. He opted to shrug off Sherlock's grip, and that seemed to catch the consulting detective's attention.
"It's for the case." Was Sherlock's simple answer, and John nodded slightly, still a bit angry. He tried to hold onto that, because the detective shouldn't assume John would go wherever he asked without protest, but it was impossible to keep up what was quickly becoming a facade. Then, John had an epiphany.
"We don't have a case." He pointed out, and for just a second, Sherlock tensed. It was gone as fast as it came, so fast that John wondered if he'd imagined it. The safer option was the latter, so he chose to go with that. Still, he looked at his mate expectantly, waiting for a response. None came; the man seemed to be too intrigued by his surroundings. John quickly deduced that it was fake, and that Sherlock was ignoring his question, so he let out an exasperated sigh.
"Sit." Sherlock commanded simply when they reached a bench, doing the action himself.
"Are you insane?" John practically whined, but complied nonetheless. That was when the shivering started, and Sherlock turned to John, curiosity evident in his gaze. John huffed, seeing his breath freeze before his very eyes. He cursed himself silently for having such an aversion to refusing his flatmate, wishing that he would just grow a backbone. He was a soldier, for God's sake. He'd looked Death in the eyes and told it to leave. Yet, he couldn't seem to put his foot down.
"And may I ask why you aren't wearing a coat?" Sherlock had the audacity to ask. John growled something that would give a nun a heart attack, then stared straight ahead. Just because he'd come to the park didn't mean he had to acknowledge his friend. It wouldn't take him long to break, but for now, he had a steely resolve. The other man's stare was unrelenting, and John could literally feel the eyes trained on him.
"Because you grabbed my arm and dragged me here without a bloody warning!" John exclaimed, finally cracking, "And now I'm freezing co-" He cut himself off as something was suddenly draped over his shoulders. He knew what it was immediately, because the smell was so undeniably Sherlock. That caused John's breath to hitch; Sherlock never removed his signature piece when it was cold outside. Well, never before this, "Are you quite alright?" Was the sentence that escaped his mouth. Social norms indicated that a 'Thank you' should have come first, but if Sherlock used them as more of a guideline, so could he.
"Yes, I am 'quite all right'." The words came with an exaggerated eye roll, "Hypothermia can occur if too little clothing is worn in whether below approximately 10 degrees celsius. You have had no food today, which heightens the risk of-"
"I'm a doctor, Sherlock." John said flatly, "I know about hypothermia." Then, John had yet another epiphany, "You are far more unhealthy than I am. You've had practically nothing to eat since Tuesday. It's Thursday. You need this coat more than I do." The look in Sherlock's eyes said everything in silence. He was not budging, "We can share it." The phrase passed John's lips without his permission. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and John was sure he would refuse, which was half the reason he'd asked. So imagine his surprise when Sherlock nodded minutely.
John took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself. He didn't quite know why his mouth was suddenly dry, nor did he understand why his heart was beating faster. Well, he understood, but rather, he didn't want to acknowledge it. There was absolutely no way he could have feelings for Sherlock Holmes. The man was married to his work, after all. So hypothetically, if John did have any semblance of that, it would be terribly unrequited.
John opened his arm, and Sherlock scooted close enough for John to cover him as well. And if John leaned slightly into Sherlock's side, and Sherlock's hand brushed the back of John's ever so slightly, neither of them said a word about it.
Lost in thought, John couldn't see the slight warmth in Sherlock's eyes as the detective looked down at him, but subconsciously, his gaze chased the chill away.
3.
"A tea house?" John asked warily as Sherlock stopped in front of glass doors, "What did you do?" Was the immediate follow-up question, because the innocent look on Sherlock's face was just that. And Sherlock Holmes was never innocent. Far from it. At any given time. The flicker of a smirk that passed on his face gave John a bit of comfort-which was horribly counterproductive. All it did was increase the suspicion, but at least it brought back a little normalcy.
"I've done nothing." Sherlock widened his eyes, causing John's to narrow. The following noise of exasperation was far more Sherlock's style, "Do you want the tea or not?" His voice was tinged with impatience that he seemed to be trying to hide. Still, John picked up on it, and the unhealthiest part was that it caused his shoulders to sag a bit in relief. He reached for the door, but before he was able to push, Sherlock did it for him. John eyed him with a bit of fear, which was truly warranted.
"Sherlock, I am going to ask you one more time. What. Did. You. Do?" John made sure to enunciate each of the last words, his tone leaving no room for rebuttal. Then, a wicked smile pulled at the corners of Sherlock's lips, too small for most people to notice. But John prided himself on interpreting his flatmate's facial expressions, no matter how minute they were. With a sweep of his arm and a pointed lack of answer, Sherlock gestured for John to go in front of him.
"You'll find out when the time is right." Sherlock's tone was layered with an air of mystery, and John sighed in frustration, but he decided to let it go for the time being. Pestering would bring no results, so it was better to just comply. The warmth of the small shop was immediately calming, and the sweet aromas John could smell made him feel at home. For once, he would be able to drink tea without brewing it-or being full of sugar, should Sherlock make it on the rarest occasions.
"I cannot spend this much money on a cup of tea." Was John's initial reaction. The prices were outrageous, especially for something John could very well make on his own. Sherlock huffed as John turned to leave, but all of a sudden, his hand closed around John's wrist. It halted John's escape, and Sherlock took the opportunity to tug him to the counter.
"You aren't paying." Sherlock muttered under his breath, and John whipped to face him in surprise. His eyes conveyed his silent 'Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?'. Again, Sherlock ignored it. Instead, he opted to point at the menu once more, the one motion making it clear that John would not walk outside without a cup of tea. John mentally weighed his options. He could jerk out of Sherlock's grip and run as fast as he was able to, or he could actually take the offer-and risk the unknown consequences that would come with it.
The right choice was admittedly easy.
John then realised, as he read the names, he had no idea what half of the items were. Despite the fact that he made tea on a regular basis, it was bought simply from the grocery store. Not fancy artisan mixes and blends. Sherlock rolled his eyes, let out a frustrated sound, then ordered two cups of a drink John didn't bother to understand. Honestly, he was much too stunned to understand much of anything.
Sherlock was being-dare he say it-considerate. And not just the quirky Sherlock-type considerate. Actual, normal human considerate.
Something was off.
Something had to be off.
Fingers snapping in front of his face pulled John from his thoughts. Sherlock was staring at him quite irritably, but John couldn't find it in him to care. He was much too preoccupied by whatever angelic being had taken over his best friend. After a huff of frustration, Sherlock grabbed John's arm, dragging him over to a table. The ex-soldier was at least present enough to sit down, but there were still no words as he stared at Sherlock, eyes narrowed.
"Sherlock-"
John was cut off by the sharp ping of a text. As soon as he heard the sound, he knew what would happen. Sherlock would jump to his feet, racing out and leaving John to trail behind him. So imagine John's surprise when Sherlock glanced at his phone, then put it down. Without rushing to a crime scene with John in tow.
"Who was that?" John tried to hide his disbelief, he really did, but when Sherlock rolled his eyes, he knew he hadn't quite been that successful. The consulting detective apparently did not deem John's question worthy of a response, because he sat in silence, "Lestrade?" John asked, noting that it was fairly idiotic since he knew the answer full and well. Sherlock stared at him with a look that spoke volumes of 'Why must I suffer with mortals?'
"Dull." Was the only word he decided to reply with. Yet again, John was shocked, because Sherlock was picking tea over a crime scene.
No, John's mind piped up, He's picking you over a crime scene.
John had grown rather fond of the denial that threw up a wall more often than it should have to in reference to his best friend. But this time, he couldn't stop it, the warmth that spread through him. Sherlock Holmes, the man who refused to spend a moment of his life relaxing, was choosing to sit in a place that he had to have felt was impossibly dull...for John.
Maybe not. John denied, There are many reasons Sherlock could want this...I just don't know any of them.
When John finally yanked himself back to reality, he found that Sherlock was looking at him rather intently. And John knew that look. It was the look that indicated that Sherlock was taking in every detail to analyse what John was thinking. It was the look that Sherlock used every time he was putting together the backstory of, well, anyone. And John was quite afraid of what he would find.
He was so preoccupied with his own worry that he didn't catch the flicker of a genuine smile on Sherlock's face.
4.
"Take off your shirt."
John promptly choked on the tea he had just swallowed, whipping to face Sherlock with wide eyes. He hadn't even realised Sherlock was there until the command pierced the silence. So many ideas flickered through John's mind, half of them being the thoughts he'd buried under deep layers of denial, the other half pondering whether or not the impending experiment would kill him. He couldn't verbalise any of them, so he opted to stare at Sherlock, jaw slack in shock.
There was a drawn out silence in which the tension in the room reached its peak. John finally recovered some semblance of thought, and he cleared his throat.
"Why..." He started, but his voice was hoarse, so he cleared his throat again, "Why, exactly, do you want me to take off my shirt?" Sherlock sighed, and John briefly recognised that it was his 'Why am I constantly in the presence of idiots' sigh. Normally, John would be the slightest bit offended, because after all, it was a logical question.
"I have been reading about certain pressure points on the body in which pain is relieved in one part of the body if another is pressed." Sherlock spoke slowly, as if John couldn't understand him. That got through John's head, and it prompted a glare directed at Sherlock.
"No." He said simply, then picked up the paper, pretending to read, even though he wasn't. At all. Instead, he was thinking of what it would feel like to have Sherlock's hands on him. On his bare skin. Rubbing and pressing and-
John cut his thoughts off before they could go too far down that road.
"But John-"
"No."
"I just-"
"No."
"Please." John would have refused again had he not been slightly startled. Sherlock was directly behind him, hands on the back of the chair. What was worse was that Sherlock wasn't just standing there. No, his head was so close that John could feel his breath on the shell of his ear. It was too close, because it was quickly scrambling John's thoughts into a tangled mess, "I promise it will feel..." John could almost see Sherlock's wicked smile without even looking, "Incredible."
And there went the last of John's logic.
"Fine." In a miraculous feat of strength, his voice was steady. He rationalised that he hadn't made that decision because Sherlock was doing...that. No, he just knew the consulting detective was persistent to say the least, and he didn't want Sherlock to do more than he had already done. Then again, he would be massaging John, and it couldn't get much worse than that.
What have I done? John wondered, and he knew he should be dreading what was to come. He really should, but he wasn't. And he wasn't about to identify just why, even though he was starting to know the answer full and well.
"John." Sherlock drew him back to the present. John rose to his feet, swallowing hard. He pointedly did not face Sherlock, because if he faced Sherlock, bad thoughts may appear, and bad thoughts could not appear. Not right then. Not ever, actually. He took a deep breath before peeling off his shirt.
"Now lay down." Sherlock commanded, and his voice was low and deep and smooth. John didn't have to look at him to imagine the words being said in a different situation. Trying to ignore it, John didn't speak as he lay down on his stomach, fists clenching then unclenching repeatedly at his sides.
"You're nervous." Sherlock pointed out, and John hoped that Sherlock could imagine his glare without him turning around. "You don't have to be." John opened his mouth to retort, the comment bringing a bit of sense back to him. But that sense fled as fast as it came when Sherlock put his hands on him.
They were cold, so why did John feel so warm?
At first, it was light, spreading oil around John's back. Even though the touch was barely there, he tingled. Then, he admonished himself, because grown men didn't tingle like schoolgirls. Grown men...
John couldn't think of another word.
And then, Sherlock started actually massaging, and John couldn't be blamed for his sharp gasp, because it felt so good. Even the first second of it unraveled him. He liked to think it was because his flatmate was pressing a certain place, but a growing part of him knew it had a lot to do with...other reasons
"How does that feel?" Sherlock murmured directly into John's ear, and at that point, John's mind was in a very different place. He couldn't form words, so he merely hummed in approval. So Sherlock kept massaging and John kept loving it.
And John was too far undone to see Sherlock's wicked grin, even after the massage was finished.
5.
It struck John on a Tuesday. He had been reading a paper, which promptly slipped from his hands, the corner of it falling into his tea. He didn't even notice, because he couldn't get around the epiphany in his mind.
Sherlock was doing it on purpose.
Everything that had happened lately, the cooking, the walk in the park, the tea house, the massage was on purpose. Sherlock knew exactly what it was doing to John, exactly what John was thinking. All of it was on purpose.
Over the past couple of days, John had come to terms with the fact that he may not be gay, but he just had feelings for Sherlock. Who, apparently, had been flirting with him for the past month. John tried every which way to think of something else, but it had happened four times, so it couldn't be a coincidence.
After the moment of shock, John narrowed his eyes.
Sherlock would pay.
"Sherlock." John called, and the consulting detective hummed in distracted response, too involved in his current experiment involving acid and feathers to really pay attention. But that would not do, so John rose to his feet, walking so that he was behind Sherlock, "Sherlock." He called again, but kept his voice quiet. When Sherlock didn't turn, he put his hand on Sherlock's hip.
That got Sherlock's attention. John could tell by the way his muscles tensed, so he took that as a cue to slowly spin the consulting detective to face him. Sherlock let him.
"What?" Sherlock attempted to snap, but John could tell that there was no real bite behind the word.
"Come here." John murmured, then grabbed Sherlock's hand, pulling him into the living room, "Sit." John ordered, and Sherlock seemed too surprised to refuse. So he sat. After a moment of staring, John walked over and sat at Sherlock's side. Then, the real fun started. The second Sherlock turned his way, John put a hand on his face, stroking his thumb back and forth across Sherlock's cheekbone.
He didn't miss Sherlock's sharp intake of breath.
It gave him the drive to keep going.
He slid his other hand up and into Sherlock's curls, and Sherlock Holmes, who was fazed by nothing, stared at John in wide eyed shock. A smirk grew on John's face as he gently tugged on Sherlock's hair, and felt a spike of triumph at the hard swallow that earned. Then, John pulled the other man's face closer until their faces were less than six inches apart. Just to solidify his revenge, he brushed his lips along Sherlock's cheek, stopping at his ear.
"Is there something you want?" John's voice was barely a whisper. Then, he drew his head back just enough to press his forehead against Sherlock's. The hand on Sherlock's cheek slid down the curve of Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock's breathing grew unsteady. Sherlock's lips parted, but for the first time, he wasn't able to speak. John drew him closer. "Is there something you want?" John repeated the question, lips brushing Sherlock's with each word.
"You." Sherlock's response seemed almost automatic, said without thought. John wanted to close the space between them more than anything. Well, more than anything except the revenge that fueled him to completely pull away. He walked back over to his chair, plopping down and picking up the dripping newspaper that he wasn't actually reading.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Sherlock stare at him, stunned. He reveled in that stare. After what had to be a full minute, Sherlock recovered and got up, snatching the newspaper from John's hands and throwing it to the side.
"What?" John asked, giving Sherlock the same 'innocent' look Sherlock had been giving him the whole time.
"Get up." The consulting detective commanded, seemingly having his wits back. John raised an eyebrow, challenging him with his gaze. They had a battle of wills. Then, Sherlock sighed, and John thought that, in a feat of amazement Sherlock was about to relent. But before he could even process it, Sherlock had yanked him out of the chair, probably intending to get him to stand.
That went very wrong, very fast.
Sherlock obviously hadn't anticipated that the force of his pull would send them both tumbling to the ground. John grunted as he landed on top of Sherlock. He was again surprised when Sherlock rolled around so he was on top of John. For a moment, they just stared into each other's eyes.
Then, John watched as a devious smile spread across Sherlock's face, and John swallowed hard. Sherlock licked his lips, clearly enjoying the moment. John held his breath without meaning to. That was when Sherlock lowered his head just enough that their foreheads were touching.
"Did you misunderstand me?" Sherlock murmured, and John's mouth opened and closed, open and closed, open and closed, "I said... I. Want. You." Their lips were millimeters apart, and John could feel them brushing with each of Sherlock's words.
"I want you too." John said without thinking.
And then they closed the distance.