Author's Notes: Hello again Fanfictioneers! It's been a while no? Anyhow, here it is, chapter four! I have some mixed feeling towered it. Not sure it's all I want it to be, but here it is, nonetheless.
Oh, and the same things still apply: Me NOT owning the characters, me NOT making money off of the story, but the plot being MY OWN.
Just formalities, ya know. :-3
All right, here it is. Read away my friends, read away!
R&R
Summary: It all starts when John Watson asks Sherlock Holmes if he wants to go out to dinner at nine thirty in the morning. The rest is history. Read to find out what the history is.
A Slow Yet Sure Realization
Chapter Four: Unveiled
This new found relationship between Sherlock and John was only somewhat official. They had yet to tell or show the rest of the world.
John still wasn't too sure about public affection. He had mixed feelings towards it, as did Sherlock. But in this case, for some reason unbeknownst to John, Sherlock actually attempted more than once to hold Johns hand, or wrap his arms around him in some manner, though John always pushed him away. Not in a rude way, but just a slight nudge. Well, usually it was a slight nudge.
They were at the crime scene of the case with the woman killer, right after they were first intimate with each other. They were both standing over her most resent victim, side by side. Sherlock was asking John what he thought.
"So John, what do you think?"
He turned his head to look at Sherlock, perplexed.
"Think about what?"
Sherlock looked back at the doctor, amusement playing on his face. When John saw that he was talking about the body, a slight blush crept on the tip of his ears due to embarrassment. So he crouched down and went into doctor mode, a nice change from the usual soldier mode he went into a lot these days.
"Hm, well, no bruises, so there weren't any beatings, except," His eyes were drawn to the wrists on the corps, "there was a struggle. His wrists were tied. But this is what caused death."
He pointed to the neck where a long deep gash went across the front of the victim's neck. "A slit throat. That's original," he noted with a hint of sarcasm.
He stood up. When he was at full height, he felt arms wrap around his waist, and a chin rest on his shoulder.
"Very good John. I think you're ready for more of a challenge."
John felt like he could have died on the spot, which would have been appropriate at a crime scene. He quickly unwrapped Sherlock's arms from around his waist, turned around and pushed Sherlock away a bit too forcefully.
"Are you mental? Are you trying to get people to look?"
Sherlock looked left and right, then back at John, his eyes analyzing.
"'Look,'" Sherlock quoted, which was rare since he wasn't typically a fan of repetition.
"Yes, look!"
Sherlock didn't quite understand. John knew that just because he knew what people were thinking all of the time, didn't mean he typically cared. John's opinion was the only opinion he ever cared about.
"And when did I ever care when peopled 'looked'?"
"Well, I still… care. A little. I mean—"
John lifted his head up in the air as if to ask God "Why," and rubbed his eyes.
He gazed back at the detective; an expression on his face that he hoped was apologetic and caring.
"I just need some time. Mostly to get used to the idea that I snogged my male flat-mate who also happens to be the worlds only consulting detective."
Sherlock sighed. He should have known that John wasn't ready to go public with this relationship. It was still so new to him, and most definitely was to Sherlock since he never thought he'd ever feel this way about anyone. Ever.
He went to where he was standing before John pushed him away, (Sherlock knew John didn't mean to be so abrupt,) and gave a quick pat to the side of his flat-mates arm, trying to make it look manly.
"Ah, don't fret John. I completely understand." He was also making his voice sound nonchalant, as if they were only talking about the weather.
John picked up on this, and gave a genuine smile.
That was another thing Sherlock appreciated so much in John. He was able to pick up on the slightest hints without even thinking about it. Sherlock came to the conclusion that the one thing he will never understand is why John thought of himself as so ordinary. Why couldn't he see how wrong he was about himself?
Sherlock tried his best to convey what he was feeling to John. His gaze was intense. John stared back in a trance for a few moments, then looked down, the blush from before creeping back into his face. He turned around, and stared back down at the lifeless form on the ground.
"All right than, why don't you solve this bloody case already?"
Though Sherlock had once again the urge to wrap himself around John, he fought the feeling and to occupy his hands, stuffed them in his coat pockets.
"I already have."
John spun around to face Sherlock once more. He had a storm of emotions playing on his face the detective noticed. First confusion, then surprise, then anger, and back to confusion again.
Sherlock gave a small frown.
"John, are you ill?"
John opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and then opened his mouth again in response.
"No I am not ill. I am just trying to figure out why you haven't gone to Lestrade yet."
"Because I want you to have this one."
John lifted his eyebrows, confused again. Why would Sherlock, brilliant amazing Sherlock, world's only Consulting Detective, want boring old John to solve the murder? This was by far the maddest thing Sherlock had ever done.
John heaved a sigh.
"Sherlock, let's not waste our time with me trying to do something far beyond my mental capacity."
Now Sherlock was the angry one. He stepped closer to John, forgetting about giving him his personal space while in the public eye. Sherlock's movement was so sudden to John that he forgot to take a step backwards. The detective stared down at John. His John.
"Why must you be like this John?" He whispered so only John could hear his words.
"Always putting yourself down, always seeing yourself as inferior to everyone, like your existence has no meaning?"
John's eyes were big as he stared back at the detective who was only mere inches from his face, noses nearly touching.
"I—"
"Why can't you see how brilliant you are?"
Johns breathing turned shallow. The words he was about to utter caught in his throat. Sherlock continued.
"If no one can see what should be so painfully obvious, then the human race is more blind than I originally presumed."
John was having an emotional overload. He would have never imagined hearing such beautiful words directed at him, and before he knew what he was doing, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck in a tight embrace and pulled him in for a kiss.
Sherlock responded almost immediately, kissing back with the same amount of force. Just ten seconds later they heard a cough. John remembered that they weren't in the comfort of their flat, and pushed Sherlock away for the second time that day. They both looked around and saw Sergeant Sally Donovan, arms folded over her chest, a single eyebrow raised. She looked back and forth from the two men, observing their disheveled hair.
"What's this then?"
Sherlock and John looked at each other, not sure what to do or say next.
Author's Notes: Well, there you have it. And I bet you're wondering: But how did every one else at the crime scene NOT notice our two favorite people in the whole wide world making out like a couple o' teenagers? Well, that shall be revealed in the next chapter!
(Not that it's such a cliffhanger or anything, but I may as well try to make it sound exciting, right?)
Anywho, if ya wanna, let me know what ya think 'cause I seriously am not sure how I feel about this chapter at all. Constructive feedback please!
:-)
