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"This is going to wrinkle my suit coat," Sherlock pointed out after a good minute or so of letting Eric hug him. Not exactly the most appropriate thing to say given the context, but he'd found the subsequent stretch of silence between them too confusing not to break.
Sherlock honestly had no idea what had prompted this whole business, the chain of consequences leading up to it... and that was nothing short of disconcerting. What had been the order of events, here? Accidentally scare the living daylights out of the man, apologise for doing so, proceed to have a vaguely awkward conversation, and then... hugs? No, that didn't seem like a logical progression of action at all. Something had to have gone terribly wrong. Perhaps Eric had suffered a small brain aneurysm? Temporary insanity?
Still, though, whatever the reasoning, their current predicament wasn't exactly... unpleasant. Far from it, actually. Sherlock was surprised to find himself rather pleased by the situation. But then that was ridiculous, wasn't it? He was Sherlock Holmes, high-functioning sociopath. He didn't do affection. Hugging, hand-holding, human contact... all pointless rubbish. Should put a stop to this right now, had no need of such nonsense.
On the other hand, however, perhaps Eric needed it. He'd initiated this after all. What, then, a comforting gesture of some sort? Seeking solace after all the stress of the arson and being questioned by police? Seemed likely. In that case... well, it would probably be more altruistic to let him carry on.
And if that particular brand of altruism happened to carry with it a not-insignificant desire on Sherlock's part to continue being pressed up against the warmth of one of the very few human beings in the world he'd ever deemed worthy of trust... well, it didn't have to mean anything. Just a basic biochemical response to human contact, wasn't it? Serotonin, dopamine... nothing but neurochemicals. He was fine.
His suit coat, though, really. Rather not have to iron it in the morning.
"Take it off, then," Eric replied, face still buried against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock huffed.
"Difficult proposition when you're busy clinging to me like a koala."
Eric finally loosened his grip and leant back to blink at Sherlock bemusedly. "... a koala?"
"Like those... the things on the pencils, you know," Sherlock explained, not entirely sure what he was even on about. Quickly he shuffled out of his jacket, tossed it in the approximate direction of his closet, and toed his shoes off at the same time. Sod it, might as well lie down properly.
"Pencils?" Eric repeated, his tone suggesting serious contemplation of the theory that hugging Sherlock may have perhaps driven the man mad. "Wait, hang on... I just thought it were weird you'd reference a koala. Now I ain't got no bleedin' clue what you even think the things are."
Sherlock scowled. "I know what koalas are."
Eric looked dubious, but before he could reply Sherlock let himself fall sideways over the other man's legs to land with a soft fwump on his pillow. After a pause to consider the propriety of his next actions (and then to immediately decide he didn't care) he grabbed Eric's arm and dragged the freckled moron down beside him. Eric made a disgruntled noise as he was forced to quickly disentangle his legs from under Sherlock's, lest he end up with a joint or two out of place, but within seconds they'd managed to get comfortably situated in a far less haphazard position than they'd been in previously.
"This really isn't a proper solution to the whole bed smells like you issue," Eric mumbled in half-hearted objection to their new arrangement. He'd ended up with his head on Sherlock's chest again, the top of his skull just under the curve of Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock rested his chin on the other's hair and frowned to himself. Hang on a moment, now wait... how'd he ended up in bed with Eric? Had he really just chosen to escalate the situation? Why? Wasn't the least bit dignified, this - limbs tangled up like a pair of teenagers, spread out across a bed that'd never had occasion to house more than one occupant, rumpling both their clothes and the sheets in equal measure. Such complete loss of decorum should be bothering him far more than it currently was.
Over the course of his life Sherlock had grown accustomed to always keeping up appearances. Accepted without thought the bevy of small, inconsequential lies he maintained for the benefit of those he interacted with. He knew how most people perceived him, could usually deduce what they wanted to hear, determine which words or behavioural patterns would be most advantageous for his reputation... predict what he'd be mocked for. Prior experiences had given him a fairly solid idea of which aspects of himself needed to be hidden for the purposes of sanity, what gave him the best chances of survival in a social climate. A clear framework for the personality he could safely present to outsiders.
Being frequently bewildered by his own actions was one of those unfortunate facets of his existence which he'd learnt early on to conceal at all costs. Who would ever respect a man who kept finding himself having to use context clues to piece together why in blazes he'd got up and walked into another room, after all? Or who couldn't seem to maintain a consistent sense of the passage of time no matter how often he checked his watch? Absent-minded, scatterbrained... no, god, unacceptable. Best to just hide it. Let them all think him in control, even when he felt like a blind rat stumbling through fog. No one's business but his own.
Hardly needed to be giving out any more ammunition against himself, anyway, what with the constant derision of freak and psycho still being flung in his face on a regular basis. Those insults he had ample practise with - barely even acknowledged them anymore, lifelong repetition having long ago stripped the words of all meaning. But others... if someone were to catch on to the ruse, realise he'd never been quite as self-assured as he made out to be, found an invective to encompass that personal failing... he didn't even want to try predicting his reaction to such a scenario. Likely sheer panic. Not an appealing mental image. Keep the secret under careful guard, then, never let it slip.
Thinking of all this, and without really knowing what he'd meant to say, Sherlock found himself opening his mouth.
"I have no idea how this happened," he admitted. Then scrunched up his face in utter confusion, because why in hell's name had he let Eric know that? Hadn't he just...? Oh for god's sake, why was he still talking? "... I'm fairly sure I just came in here to fetch the case file with the eye-maggots. Now suddenly I'm in bed with you. This doesn't make any sense."
"Life's a bleedin' mystery," Eric countered blandly.
No attempt whatsoever to twist the admission into mockery. Nor even to question why Sherlock, by all rights a bloody supergenius, would have trouble following a chain of events which had occurred less than five minutes ago. Just... casual acceptance. Unconsciously Sherlock's arms tightened around the other man's shoulders in a hug he hadn't meant to give.
After another silent moment between them Sherlock frowned. Eric's breathing was growing suspiciously regular, settling into a steady pattern of slumber. He drew back to try to get a look at the man's face but couldn't quite manage the proper angle.
"Are you falling asleep?" he asked instead.
"Dunno," Eric mumbled. "Maybe...?"
Words slurred a bit, poor enunciation - definitely slipping into unconsciousness. Well that wasn't bloody fair at all, Sherlock was still pinned to the mattress. How the hell was he meant to get up without waking Eric later?
"Let me up," Sherlock demanded, trying to shove his companion off. In response freckled arms tightened more firmly around his torso to trap him decisively in place.
"No."
Another half-hearted shove, then he simply huffed a frustrated sigh to himself and let his body go limp. Eric snuggled into his chest like a child with a teddy bear. Sherlock grumbled something indistinct about clingy juvenile morons, but try as he might there was no real venom to the words. He just couldn't seem to bring himself to be all that upset by any of this. Perhaps because this was the longest bout of sustained contact with another human being Sherlock could recall having had in several years, which was causing the ancient social primate portions of his brain to release a flood of dopamine. Or... perhaps because Eric was really quite warm, and there'd been a bit of a draft out in the sitting room? Or maybe because it would be too much bother to move. One of those, anyway.
He'd explain it all to himself later on, he knew. Always did. Stripped his more distressingly human actions of all sentiment to make it easier to slot into a mental paradigm. Fit the careful persona he'd built.
For now, though... well, sod it, he'd not actually been planning to stay up all night anyway. A quick kip would accomplish the same task whether he took it on the sofa or his bed. And in an hour or so Eric would have sunk deep enough in slumber to make it possible to slip out the room without waking him. So Sherlock would simply take a brief rest now, no longer than absolutely necessary, then wake up a short time later to extricate himself before morning. Easy.
With a soft huff of a sigh he let his eyes slip closed.
An hour's nap, that was all. Then he'd leave.
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"Sherlock, put a pot of tea on would you?"
John grumbled his words blearily into the silence of early dawn as he shuffled into the sitting room the next morning. He cracked a wide yawn, stretched his back and rubbed at his eyes. Needed a cuppa. Caffeine, spot of breakfast, get himself going for the day.
With a frown John realised his flatmate hadn't yet responded to him. He opened both eyes and blinked several times to clear his vision of the haziness of sleep. Before him the sitting room stood jarringly empty, the remains of Sherlock's work strewn across various tables like a maelstrom of paper. The detective himself was nowhere to be found.
Expression flatly confused, John turned and glanced toward the kitchen. No one there. Bathroom was open, as well, so the man wasn't in the loo. Oh, but... his bedroom door was ajar? Was Crenshaw awake, then? Had the two of them gone off somewhere? Perhaps a visit with Mrs Hudson...
As he formulated these theories John had been moving towards the bedroom, meaning to have a peek through the open door - just to be sure the flat was empty, mind, and that no one needed anything resembling medical assistance. A quick glance showed him the jumbled outline of a figure asleep on the bed and he drew back. Oh, Crenshaw hadn't gotten up yet. What was his door doing open, then? Thought for sure he'd heard it close last night... John frowned and reached out to gently shut the door for the sake of the lad's privacy.
Quite suddenly his sleep-addled brain seemed to catch up with processing the signals from his eyes, however, and John froze with his hand on the knob.
A shock of dark curls splayed out on the pillow. Freckled arm draped over a thin chest clad in a sleep-rumpled buttonup. Sherlock's shoes discarded at the side of the bed.
A sharp bark of laughter nearly burst out from his throat but John clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle it. Quietly as possible he crept away from the door and snatched up his phone from the table where he'd left it last night.
Don't wake up, don't wake up... he pleaded silently as he padded back to the door. Oh thank hell, they were still out. Grinning like a loon he snapped a photo of the scene.
The sound of his mobile's automatic camera-shutter noise seemed to startle Crenshaw quite badly. Out of nowhere the boy sucked in a panicked breath, eyes flying wide open, and flailed around comically before managing to shove himself up on one elbow.
"Wha'ver 'appened it weren' me swear t'christ," he slurred in a hasty jumble of cockney. John winced apologetically. Oops, bollocks, he'd forgotten about the shutter noise.
"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you," he offered, lowering his phone. Crenshaw blinked owlishly at him. After a second or so the boy seemed to recall where he was and fixed John with a faintly confused look.
"Oh, er... mornin', Dr Watson. What're you doin' in...?" His words trailed off as he appeared to realise that John was in fact stood in the half-open door, not in the room itself, and that the childish smile on the doctor's face was being directed equally towards him and someone else. With a blink Crenshaw glanced down to the warm lump of unconscious detective curled up next to him. Instantly his freckled cheeks went bright pink.
"Slept well, then?" John asked brightly, unable to smother his delighted expression in response to Crenshaw's obvious embarrassment. Not remotely fair to keep teasing the poor boy like this, he knew - but really now, how could one help it? He and Sherlock were like a couple of goofy kids together, all fidgety gestures and awkward blushing... hilarious and strangely adorable all at once.
Below Crenshaw's chest Sherlock, in his usual habit of refusing to be roused from slumber by anything less than a magnitude ten earthquake, frowned and mumbled an indistinct complaint for all the noise. He shifted to wrap his upper body partially around his bed-mate's torso like a prodded cat and buried his head under a pillow.
"W-we didn't, I... really, I swear this ain't what it looks like," Crenshaw stammered. With a self-conscious clearing of his throat he attempted to move away from Sherlock, only to find himself pinned firmly in place by the other man's grip round his midsection.
John just grinned.
"Fry-up alright for breakfast?" he asked after a brief pause to commit the scene to memory. Turning away from the door he set himself to the business of gathering ingredients from the fridge, hoping the change of subject would make it clear he had no problem with the situation. John had brought girlfriends round the flat before, after all, and Sherlock had always been decent enough to (more or less) put up with them. Wouldn't dream of complaining in the opposite scenario. Best mates, right? Certain codes of conduct to adhere to, both of them obligated to be civil to romantic partners.
Behind him he heard Crenshaw mutter an embarrassed affirmative. By the sounds of things the boy was attempting to extricate himself from Sherlock's grip without waking him. Needn't have bothered being so careful about it - if Sherlock hadn't stirred by now between all the talking and movement then it most likely meant the man was in the midst of one of his haven't-slept-in-days, dead-to-the-world comas. No amount of effort would rouse him from that.
John had gotten the pan nearly all the way heated up when Crenshaw finally stepped sheepishly into the kitchen and closed the bedroom door behind him.
"Er... Sherlock says he's not hungry," he informed John in a flustered mumble. John turned and regarded him with a half-amused, half-impressed sort of look.
"You managed to get him awake long enough to answer a question?" Facing back toward the stove John chuckled to himself, struck with a sudden thought: Eric Crenshaw, Detective Whisperer. Friend to all consulting lunatics.
"Y-yeah...?" Crenshaw was carefully taking a seat at the table, looking helplessly anxious. His hands had strayed towards each other to press palm-to-palm in that strange habit of his. John quirked an exasperated smile in the lad's direction as he turned to grab the carton of eggs.
"No need to be nervous," he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.
Crenshaw startled and seemed to realise what his hands were doing. He whipped them away from each other to tuck them under his thighs instead. "Oh, er... sorry," he muttered, biting his lip. "I'm just, uh... not sure if I, well... I mean I don't want to make things awkward or noth- anything, erm. Or anything."
Having trouble keeping his accent straight, apparently. John smiled to himself and cracked an egg into the pan on the stove. Supposed it must be true, then - opposites attract. Because he couldn't very well think up a more polar opposite to the cavalier insanity of Sherlock Holmes than a meek, kind-hearted worrier. Why the boy was acting like one wrong move would be the death of him, though, he had no idea.
"No chance of that. Really, I'm just pleased to see him getting on with someone for a change," John explained as he moved on to the sausages. "And the whole exes bit... kind of a relief, to be honest. We'd all thought perhaps he'd taken a vow of celibacy."
Crenshaw snorted in disbelief. "Celibacy? Him?"
"I take it we were wrong?" John smiled to himself, flipping a few links in the pan. Oh yes, this conversation was progressing in all the right directions. Absolutely brilliant.
Bad job you couldn't be bothered to wake up, Sherlock... he thought impishly. Perfect opportunity to gather some choice material for teasing the man.
"Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure he was a bit of a- erm..." Crenshaw trailed off, going faintly pink again. "That is, from what I'd gathered, he'd got around quite a lot during uni. If you, er, know what I... mean." He coughed awkwardly and rubbed at the back of his neck. "... certainly wasn't inexperienced, anyway."
John made a strange, sputtering pfft noise in an attempt to stifle an inappropriate burst of cackling laughter. Not inexperienced...? Oh lord, but the million implications of that simple statement. Sherlock using his absurd deductive powers to go sharking about some late-night uni club - he could just picture it. And he didn't even want to imagine the man's idea of pillow talk. Did he even do the whole quintessential romance bit? Or had he been one of those clingy, overprotective types?
Though, perhaps the most important question... "Was he a good boyfriend?"
Crenshaw looked to have been taken completely off-guard by that. He fixed John with a befuddled stare as the older man set a plate laden with eggs and sausage down in front of him.
"A good...? Er..." The lad's brows furrowed in thought. He glanced back over his shoulder to the bedroom, seeming to deliberate for several long seconds. John took a seat on the opposite side of the table and studied him with interest. Rather complicated history there, it seemed. Fascinating. Though not the least bit unexpected, of course, considering the man involved...
In a spark of clear cognisance John suddenly found himself struck by just how little he actually knew about his flatmate. Who was Sherlock, really? And what precisely did Crenshaw see in him? There had to be something there besides all the snark and vain posturing, after all. Something more... human. John had seen glimpses of that hidden empathy from time to time, obviously, but now he couldn't help wondering at the depth of the man Crenshaw knew. Sherlock almost seemed to be a completely different person around him - all soft edges and enthusiasm.
Finally Crenshaw turned back round again. A small smile flitted across his face.
"Yeah," he decided. "Yeah... I guess he was."
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