AN: I want to say thanks to my fantastic reviewers and all those who favorited/story alerted this story! I never thought it would get that popular. I just hope I can live up to your expectations! Thanks again! Hope you like this one.
Ch. Summary: John's feeling very confused. So is Sherlock.
"Let me show you," Sherlock said. His hands closed around John's and brought the violin to rest under the shorter man's chin. This movement also brought Sherlock flush against John, something that brought warmth rising to the doctor's face. Sherlock positioned John's fingers so that they formed a chord and brought the bow up to rest on the strings. Slowly, they fumbled through a few notes, John making his fingers clumsy and hesitating on purpose. This isn't working, he thought to himself. He knows, he has to know. But if he did, Sherlock didn't show it, continuing to position John's hand and help him play the instrument. Suddenly, John felt a weight on his shoulder. Sherlock had put his head down on it to see better, and the touch made John suddenly hyperaware. The feel of Sherlock's hands on his as they played the violin, the way that Sherlock was so close John could feel the other man's heat and his chest rising and falling. John's nose became full of Sherlock's smell-how had he never noticed how good the other man smelled before? He could hear both their heartbeats; John's was now pounding and he realized he was breathing too heavily for what they were doing. What is going on? John asked himself. His hands clenched around the neck of the violin and the bow, freezing their progress.
"John? What is it? What's wrong?" Sherlock asked. God, that voice. That deep baritone that sent shivers down John's spine. Wait, what? What's happening? "Are you ok?"
"Stop talking," John whispered weakly. He felt weird, dizzy and too warm. Sherlock let go of his hands, and John felt cold and deprived. He spun around, his eyes landing full on Sherlock's lips. The way his heart was beating and the way he was breathing, John was starting to become slightly worried about a heart attack. However, all that was immediately replaced when Sherlock opened his mouth again.
"John. Look at me." He complied, his eyes becoming drowned by beautiful grey ones.
"Sherlock," he breathed. John was suddenly completely overwhelmed by a desire to find out what the detective tasted like. He wanted to wipe that infuriating (sexy) smirk off his face (which, presently, was being replaced by a worried frown). I wonder if his lips are as soft as they look, he thought as his eyes drifted lower again. Then, somehow, the spell broke. John realized how close they were, how his body was about to betray him, and how it already had. John's eyes, wide with shock and embarrassment, snapped up to meet Sherlock's, which were narrowed in worry and confusion. John's mouth opened and closed like a fish a few times before he managed to get something out. Something that only added to his humiliation.
"I'm not gay!" he shouted. Oh my God. Get out now. With that, John whirled around, stopping only to place the violin on his chair, grab his coat and phone, and absolutely ran out of the flat. Sherlock just stood there, completely bewildered, and slightly warmer than he knew he should've been.
"What just happened?" he asked the flat. The flat didn't reply. "Figures." Now what was he going to do all day? He looked at the wall. The smiley face taunted him. "You're on," he told it. Besides, John wouldn't be home for a few hours, Sherlock had plenty of time. But as he crossed the room to get John's gun, he asked himself why he wanted John to come back now. And told himself the question needed further investigation-after the smiley face.
