Just days later, John got the call he had been expecting. "I just don't think it's working out," Sarah had said sheepishly. He couldn't help but agree. She had been stringing him along for weeks now, and still nothing. He was, if anything, glad to be let off, seeing as he had been stopping himself from making the exact same call at least every couple of hours for the last few days. He slumped down in the armchair, a cup of tea in his hand, watching Sherlock pluck the strings of his damned violin. He had tried not to be awkward with the detective. He had no real reason to be. But that fantasy was sticking in his mind and replaying itself at the most awkward moments. Like now for instants.
"My GOD Sherlock, would you please stop that?" John's voice broke over the insufferable violin 'playing', causing Sherlock to look up almost immediately. "I could ask you the same thing," he said back, resuming the incessant plucking of the violin strings. John took a sip of his tea, immediately regretting it as the hot liquid burnt the tip of his tongue. "Stop what, exactly, Sherlock?" "Thinking, John," he said nonchalantly. "Especially thinking about what you're thinking about. I'm finding it hard to concentrate." John blushed. He couldn't know. Surely he couldn't. Could he?
"You don't even have a case," spat John. As if on command Sherlock's phone beeped. He picked it up, reading the text and rolling his eyes before standing up and making for the staircase. He threw on his thick coat, and pulled his scarf around his neck, looking at the back of the chair where the doctor sat. "Are you not coming John?" he asked, sounding almost puzzled. "Oh, I wouldn't want to put you of," he spat again. Sherlock turned quickly and vanished down the stairs, closing the door behind him, and leaving John alone in the flat.
John immediately regretted his decision not to join Sherlock as he paced the length of the room again. Boredom had been quick to set in after Sherlock had left, and now he could only imagine what sort of case the detective had been called to. He looked over at Sherlock's bedroom door, aware suddenly that after all of the time they had lived together he had not once seen the inside of his room.
He moved quickly to the door, aware that the other man could return at any moment. He turned the handle and pushed the door gently, peering in as he did. With the door fully open, he stepped through the doorway in shock. Sherlock's room was not covered in case notes, body parts and experiments like the rest of the flat. It was all neatly placed, tidy, clean. So unlike Sherlock that John would have easily believed that someone else entirely lived in this room.
He stepped through the doorway, immediately aware of the musky male smell that seemed to swirl around him. He stopped for a second, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath though his nose, letting Sherlock's smell fill his mind. His stomach seemed to flip at the thought of the other man. He shook his head and opened his eyes again. What the hell was wrong with him? He looked over at the bed, covered in a soft purple duvet the same colour as that damn shirt. The one that was, at this moment, tucked neatly into Sherlock's trousers.
John continued to look around the unlikely room, his eyes constantly returning to the bed. It looked so damn comfortable. He sat on the edge of it, sinking ever so slightly into the soft quilt and mattress. He turned and grabbed one of the pillows, squashing and pulling it. It was down, the feathers recognisable between the thick cover. John put the pillow back and swung his legs onto the bed. It couldn't hurt, could it? He rested his head on the soft pillow, his entire body sinking comfortably into the thick duvet. He closed his eyes, and Sherlock's scent filled his mind again, stronger this time. And with thoughts of the dark haired man swirling around his mind, John fell asleep.
Sherlock returned earlier than he had anticipated. The case had been an easy one. He'd know the minute he saw the girl's body that her boss had been the one to kill her, and all because she wouldn't sleep with him again. All he had to do was prove that to Lestrade, which had been simple. He removed his coat and scarf returning them to their usual place on the back of the living room door. Something felt wrong to Sherlock, who immediately turned to look at his open bed room door. He never, never, left that door open. He crept, placing his feet where he knew he would make the least sound and peered around the door, jumping back in shock at what he saw.
Doctor John Watson, colleague and flatmate, was curled against the purple sheets, his head resting on one of the pillows. Sherlock found himself smiling, an odd thing to do when finding an apparently straight friend curled up in your own bed. He moved to the other side of the bed, slipping off his shoes and jacket before joining the doctor carefully on the bed. He watched him for a while, fascinated by his breathing. He had never in his life seen John looking so peaceful. It suited him. He brushed his fingertips lightly along John's jawbone, causing him to moan slightly in his sleep. Sherlock had never felt any less like himself. Sure. He had been attracted to people. But never in this sort of way. This was just inappropriate for the man who prided himself in being married to his work.
John began to wake, and in the odd state between sleep and consciousness, he was sure he saw Sherlock's piercing eyes gazing back at him. He closed his eyes again, thinking that when he opened them the vision would be gone. But it wasn't. He rubbed his eyes so hard that they stung before opening them again.
"You look confused, John," he smiled wonkily, brushing some hair from his face. John croaked, trying to say something. But there were just no words. He rolled over, swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. "S-sorry, Sherlock. I... my leg was hurting. I couldn't get up stairs and I needed a lie down," god what a terrible lie. Sherlock knew that the leg was nothing but a psychological problem. "And the sofa just wasn't good enough?" Sherlock smiled, John was uptight. "I'm sorry," John said again, putting on a slight limp as he stood up and walked out of the room and up the stairs.
John had been upstairs for hours, and Sherlock still hadn't moved from his lying position on his own bed. He was looking at the creases that John had made on the purple duvet, tracing the lines with his long fingers. This just wasn't possible. Never before had Sherlock felt such wanting for something that didn't result in someone going to prison. He would just delete his attraction from his mind. Just like the solar systems. Useless and unnecessary information. And with that his mind seemed to calm. Moving onto more important matters. He rolled over, too tired to change, nestling his face into one of the soft pillows with an exhausted sigh.