The Doorknob Of His Sexuality Closet
"I couldn't find your jumper, sorry, John. But, um..." Jessica peeked round the doorframe, a paper bag clutched in both her slender hands. "I brought croissants!" She spied Sherlock sitting stylishly in an armchair by the fireplace. He had, in the space of thirty seconds, donned a suit-jacket and polished black brogues. "Oh! Um... hello." Sherlock didn't have to turn his head from his newspaper to notice the coquettish smile on the lady's lips. John ambled in behind Jessica, pursed his own lips in a nervous manner and swallowed as Sherlock looked at the cherry-red beauty in their living room. Well, looked was an understatement.
His dark eyebrows slightly shadowed an intense, focused stare and the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth was positively- or, rather, negatively- coy. This expression was the first of many instances to come that inspired John's eyebrows to gradually come together over his nose, as if huddling in fear.
The air seemed to fizzle and crack as no one spoke for five seconds, unmoving.
"Err..." John cleared his throat and Sherlock's gaze was broken. As John introduced them both, Sherlock's eyelids dropped half an inch and he placed the newspaper on the round table in front of him. "Sherlock Holmes, this is..." he paused and rubbed his forehead with the back of his index finger.
Psychosomatic sweeping away of imaginary sweat from brow: stress.
"Well, you probably know who this is-"
"Of course he does!" Jessica beamed, holding the paper bag out to John- who, depressing himself, took it- as the kettle whistled from the kitchen. He padded into the kitchen like a dismissed dog and his lips tightened in realisation. "He's Sherlock Holmes!" Jessica squealed. Use of full name, excited tone, hand shaking as she holds it out... slight delusions about me, has fantasised... She bent over as she practically danced over to him in her red stilettos.
Vain; takes egotistical fashion measures no matter the weather. Today: South West winds of 8 mph, low temperature of 1°.
He was gifted with a glimpse of creamy-pale cleavage as she bent down and offered her hand.
"Jessica Townsend." Sherlock took her hand and smiled as John came to the doorway between the kitchen and living room, eyes darting from woman to man, fangirl to axe-sharp detective who was more than likely to chop Jessica down like a baby spruce who was stealing too much juice from the rest of the forest. A spruce in a knee-length, fitted 'Jackie' belted Garbardine sheath dress.
"A pleasure to meet you-" Sherlock maintained the handshake as he stood up, maintained eye contact as he placed his other hand on top of Jessica's- "Jess, is it? May I call you Jess?"
Cold hands. Why: Shallow breathing, nervous. Not enough oxygen to recharge blood-cells.
John's eyebrows inched together a tad more as Sherlock's thumb stroked over Jessica's.
"Y-yes, you can call me Jess. Oh!" John wasn't sure if Jessica was aware she was partially curtsying to Sherlock now, hands still locked. The corners of her green eyes creased. "I rhymed!"
"Oh- ahaha!" The eyebrows had come to panic stage four. "Quite," Sherlock laughed. He turned his head to John, still covering Jessica's hand like a pearl-clam shell. "Tea ready, John? And those croissants- maybe put them on those blue china plates Mrs Hudson stowed away in the sink cupboard?" John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. "Or not... we could be heathens and eat them from the packet," he joked with Jessica.
"Oh, come on, John," Jessica mock-begged. Sherlock spied the dagger-sharp glint in one of John's eyes before John smiled, turned and complied. Sherlock quickly let go of Jessica's hand as he spun round too and pushed items around on the dining table to make room.
"He invited her around. Why? I told him I wasn't going to continue seeing her. Stubborn git." John grumbled to himself in the kitchen as he pressed the teabags against the enamel of the mugs so hard tea-leaves almost spilled out.
"I take two sugars, John!" Jessica called.
"I'd have thought you were sweet enough," Sherlock teased. Yes, Sherlock. Teased.
"Oh, this is just great,this is just fine," John muttered, murderously. He finished making the teas, upturned the croissants onto three plates from the paper bag, put it all on a tray and- "Oh," John joked jadedly to himself, "Mustn't forget my white maid's pinafore."
He returned to the living room to find Sherlock sitting in a chair facing the kitchen, with Jessica behind him, two silky legs parted at his back and squeezing his legs together as she massaged his neck. His eyes were closed, somehow intensely.
"Is that better?" Jessica cooed into his ear. John's eyebrows convention had officially convened.
"Ahem."
"Oh!" Jessica couldn't have sounded less innocent. She disentangled herself from Sherlock and sat on the chair next to him. "Looks wonderful," she smiled, blushing as John marched over and set the tray on the table. But John didn't see Jessica. All he saw was a smiling, relieved-looking Sherlock, half-whistling, half-blowing in satisfaction.
"Goodness, Jessica. I'm sure you'll qualify. If you don't, send them to me and I'll sort them out." They both giggled. Giggled. John's left eyebrow raised as though shooting up from a business-meeting table in fury.
John slouched down in the wooden chair opposite the happy couple and took a rather noisy bite of his croissant. The lovebirds followed suit. There was silence save for the crunches.
"I have the jumper," John informed Jessica, coldly.
"Oh, well, good- I didn't find it at mine," she replied, sweet as her tea. John sighed and nodded as he took a swig of his own. He reprimanded himself for being rude to Jessica. Jessica hadn't done anything wrong. Jessica had been the one who'd had to listen to the bellow that rattled the doorknob of his sexuality closet. He forced a smile at her before bulleting a slitted-eye glare at Sherlock. Sherlock had been the one who'd put him in this scenario. The detective met the doctor's daggers with bemused bewilderment over the rim of his tea, which he downed in a heartbeat.
"Something the matter, John? And could I have some more tea?"
John banged his mug down.
"You know what-" he half-shouted, shoulders tensing and chest expanding. Then he exhaled, hung and shook his head and smiled as he took Sherlock's cup: he was not going to rise to the wind-up and fulfil whatever warped vengeance Sherlock had planned because John hadn't put him in immediate contact with the lady currently eyeing a flake of croissant on Sherlock's lapel. He swept it away- instinctively- before she could covet it, laminate it, frame it and hang it on her bedroom wall.
As John stormed off, Sherlock turned his attentions back to Jessica, who swooned in her seat and glittered in arousal. He didn't seem to quite know how to position himself before he rested an elbow on the back of the chair, folded his legs and inclined his head towards her.
"So- is our little Johnny boy as good in the sack as he boasts to be?" he questioned, softly, smiling charmingly.
"Ah!" Jessica exhaled, smiling back. She glanced around Sherlock to see if John was watching then dived back into Sherlock's eyes. "Has he still not told you?" Sherlock tilted his head to the side and feigned ignorance and interest, reaching up to clasp his hands together, keeping his elbow where it was. John strolled back into the living room in time for Jessica to berate him.
"John, you still haven't told him? That's terrible! Even more inappropriate, in my opinion!" Sherlock arched his neck around and probed John's eyes with his own.
"Tell me what?" None but John would sense the cueing note in Sherlock's voice- the one that told him he should be admitting something right about now. It was a tone his mother had used sparsely in his childhood and even less often in his adolescence. John had been a very sensible offspring.
John was genuinely confused for a moment before he caught on to what Jessica was on about. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, tried to smile and lie but then caught sight of a fast-fleeting grin on Sherlock's face.
"You know," John breathed, whole body relaxing in defeat. Sherlock blinked at John- a covert nod- and then turned back to Jessica.
"I know what?" She took a breath as if to tell him but- spying queasy panic on John's face- Sherlock decided enough fun had been had. He silenced her by stroking a drop of tea from under her lower lip and slipping a piece of card into the fold of dress at her chest. It was on her intellect to deduce whether or not he had given her his number. She decided he had. He had not. "Maybe John will tell me," he murmured, darkly. She reacted as if he had just told her he wanted to drizzle her in honey and clean it all up before she got too sticky. Before she melted into the chair, Sherlock raised her with a hand under a arm and they both stood up.
She cleared her throat and sighed, nodding.
"I'll give you some time alone, then," she simpered, touching a hand to the card at her breast before giving a sympathetic look to John and exiting the apartment.