4. A fine one

A week later, Sherlock was working through the night. His experiment was at a crucial stage and it was truly exciting. He just needed to concentrate and make sure to add only one drop. He exhaled slowly to steady himself, held the pipette above the test tube on the holder and... the chemical reaction was fast. The liquid inside the test tube foamed at an alarming speed, the thick mixture overflowed and fell over a few glass slides on the table. Reflexively he tried to move them out of the way and in his haste, knocked a glass cup down. The noise was disproportionately loud considering the small amount of damage. Luckily, there was nothing of importance on the slides that were ruined.

Soon there were footsteps hurrying down the stairs.

'Sherlock!'

'Calm yourself, John. Nothing happened.'

'Nothing happened? Nothing happened! It's bloody fucking three... (he glanced at the clock on the wall) forty two in the bloody fucking morning! Why couldn't you just wait until tomorrow to break stuff? I nearly had a heart attack, jolting awake like that, thinking the worst-'

Sherlock wasn't listening anymore. Once he looked up, he saw John pacing around angrily, arms flaying wildly, while wearing nothing but his pants. John favoured the smallish "bikini" style as opposed to regular "y" fronts and Sherlock finally understood why: they had a more flattering line. As he gestured and paced angrily, Sherlock's eyes followed his moves: his shoulders, his pecs, his nipples, his scars, his biceps, his deltoids, his abs, his back, his buttocks, his thighs, his calves, his feet. There was a definite spike in Sherlock's heart rate, his body temperature increased, blood rushed to his face. He was thankful for the goggles - they kept John from noticing his wandering stare - and the low light required by the experiment - which made his flush less obvious. The low light also played in the different planes of muscles before him, creating light and shadow that sculpted John's body before his very eyes.

Like a sculpture from the Hellenistic period.

He came to an epiphany that stunned and paralysed him.

'Sherlock! Have you heard a single word of what I just said?'

Wrestled away from his astonished state, he quickly averted his gaze from John's crotch. 'Hm? What?' As Sherlock's body acted without his consent, he was suddenly thankful for the crowded table between them.

'Argh! Sherlock, I swear! Sometimes talking to you is like talking to a wall. I'm gonna go upstairs and attempt to go back to sleep and you'd better be quiet or I'll come down and make you. And clean up the mess on the floor or I'll have you sweep it with your tongue tomorrow!'

'Technically, it's already "tomorrow".'

'YOU KNOW VERY WELL WHAT I MEANT!'

Unconsciously John did a military turn - quite impressive, given the fact that he was barefoot - and marched angrily upstairs. Sherlock followed him with his gaze running up and down his body, committing to memory what he was seeing.

I was right about his glutes.

...

Once back in his room, John caught a glimpse of himself on the wardrobe's mirror and did a double take. In his haste, thinking only of Sherlock's safety, he had just rushed downstairs... wearing only his pants! He must have looked comic and ridiculous, yelling and scolding Sherlock, all self righteous while nearly naked. He groaned, sat on the bed and flopped down with his face on the pillow, trying to smother his embarrassment.

...

Sherlock just stood there, still replaying the scene of John's body in his mind. His thoughts were running at dizzying speeds in his mind.

Like a sculpture from the Hellenistic period.

He hadn't thought of the Hellenistic period ever since... Victor. He thought he had deleted such useless knowledge. Victor had a scientific mind, but also a liking for Greek art, especially of that period, with its abundance of realistic male nudes. He had often compared Sherlock's body to such sculptures, even though he was much slighter than the usual mass of muscles. He realised, in that moment, that he had failed to delete noise due to sentimentality. His lips tugged down. After all this time, he should've been able to delete it.

Victor always said men were visual creatures, and that just looking at sculptures (and paintings or photos) of naked men were enough to excite him and lead him to want to touch Sherlock. But most of the time - he used to say - just looking at Sherlock was enough.

He shuddered. Whenever Victor touched him, something powerful took over his transport and he was unable to resist or think. Ultimately, that had been his undoing. It wasn't until a few years later that he came to resent and despise his own lack of control under Victor's touch. One of the reasons why he avoided physical contact nowadays was to combat such weakness. And yet... after all these years he still had failed to master his own body. He had, once again, almost succumbed to Victor's touch.

Then, there was his dismay at the latest of his transport's betrayal.

Unlike Victor, Sherlock had never been a "visual" man. To him, the bleached statues of centuries past were no more compelling than still life paintings. Nothing that he'd see was ever enough to cause in him similar effects to what Victor experienced. Sherlock was only affected by touch. And it was always Victor who initiated it.

But what had just happened now? What had caused such physical reaction in him? If he had never been visually affected, why had this happened? And with John? The images of contrasting light and shadow, smoothness of muscles and the ruggedness of scars, the soft fuzz of hair reflecting golden in John's thighs, all danced in front of his eyes again. And again, his body rebelled and reacted on its own. Once more, he felt the heat spreading from his core to the rest of his body, making him sweat.

He shook his head and looked around the kitchen, surprised to return to reality. He took a step and flinched; he had forgotten the broken glass. He jumped on one foot towards the rubbish bin, removed and discarded his glass studded sock. The cuts weren't too serious, fortunately. He looked back at the floor. He didn't doubt John's anger, he might as well do as he had threatened. Sherlock sighed and went on to sweep up the mess, stepping on his heel to protect the injured foot. Just to keep John's anger at bay, of course. He stopped at the bathroom to clean the small cuts and cover them with plaster. He was dawdling and he knew it. He had run out of defences and excuses.

Now he was free to go into his bedroom and lock the doors.

And this was really not good.

...

John and Mrs. Hudson kept exchanging hushed conversations; Sherlock had been way too quiet for the past couple of days, considering that there hadn't been a case in a week. They were expecting him to go off like a bomb any time now. Both prayed for a case.

A/Note: Things will only get hotter from now on, Sherlock. ;)

Please review? You guys have been so quiet... let me know you're out there and how I'm doing.