Physical Attraction

Glittering raindrops ran down melancholically on the outside of the window as a steady, cold rain was beating down on a grey Saturday afternoon in November. John Watson peered out skeptically, currently weighing up the disadvantages of a trip to the grocery shop in such weather against the disadvantages of skipping dinner and going to bed with a growling stomach.

"Can I make you a cup of tea, dear?"

"Ah, yes. Thanks Mrs. Hudson." John replied, thankfully. "And thanks for doing the laundry."

The elderly ladies head appeared in the kitchen door, a clement smile on her face.

"It was just this once. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

John checked his phone for messages, considering for a moment to text Sherlock and tell him to bring in something to eat for later, but the sound of self-confident steps coming up the stairs of the house announced the arrival of the same person whose silhouette now loomed behind the milky glass of the flats door for a moment before the door burst open and Sherlock appeared. John often wondered if Sherlock had tampered with the lighting in the hall purposely to grant him this dramatic effect on entering. He rolled his eyes, amused and appalled to equal parts, as he took in the sight of the somewhat wet and sullen figure, covered in rain and dark brown mud from head to toe. In his hand he held a shovel.

Happy to see his best friend home, it took John a moment to realize the full extent of the taller mans state. He was out of his coat, unusual, his shirt was not just dirty but also torn, suspicious, and he was so soaked that his shirt clung to his lean upper body like a second skin. Unhealthy. In the silence a drop could be heard, falling from the tip of the detectives' long nose and hitting the wooden floor of the room audibly.

"That was dull." The usual nonchalance in his voice suffered slightly as his body betrayed the detached statement with a violent chattering of teeth.

"Christ, Sherlock! What happened?"

"Don't want to talk about it. Had to leave coat behind. Money in it. Hence: walk."

"Where the fuck were you? How… What..-" But whenever Holmes used the term 'I don't want to talk about it', John knew, it was best to leave the matter alone. He had learned that the hard way several times. Besides, after the first shock, the symptoms of his helper's syndrome kicked in, hard, as always when his best friend and flat mate had gotten himself into health damaging trouble.

"Mrs. Hudson, tea for Sherlock too, and quickly. And you: out of the wet clothes. Now." Sometimes John felt like a single mom, caring for a kid with special needs. At least he presumed that this what single moms felt like. One time he had even doctored Sherlock with a patch with dinosaurs on it. To be fair, Sherlock hadn't insisted on the dinosaurs, he hadn't even felt the need to be patched up in the first place. But sometimes John just had to compel the man to his own happiness.

He helped the violently shivering Sherlock to handle the buttons on his shirt. What this must look like again. Mrs. Hudson will love the sight of this. He had never been able to fully convince the woman that they weren't a couple. John rolled his eyes. First a wet shirt hit the floor, followed by a pair of pants and Boxers and within minutes John had Sherlock wrapped up in a blanket, telling himself that having his naked friend next to him was not at all awkward. Not awkward, at all. As Mrs. Hudson brought the tea, John was just tugging at the blanket, making sure it covered the now slightly less paralyzed detectives neck properly.

"I don't want you to catch a cold. You're insufferable when you're ill." He hurried to add to his actions so that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't get the wrong idea. She gave them a touched smile anyway. Now that he'd said it out loud it kind of sounded like the playful teasing of a vlover and he rolled his eyes again at the realization. To get away from the uncomfortableness of the situation, John went to grab a towel from the bathroom and found Sherlock in a slightly more talkative state.

"Well, that was hardly worth the effort. Apparently next time I want to exhume a body I will have to get a permit." He spit out the last words as though they were a slimy insect that had flown in his mouth to die there. "Or they'll arrest me." raised eyebrows, undoubtedly mimicking the voice of the security person who had informed him of this.

"You wanted to exhume a body." This was more of an unbelieving statement than a question, because John had learned over time that Sherlock did not react very well to the question "why?" whenever one of his sinister experiments was concerned. He probably just 'needed to know' something very badly.

"Obviously."

John walked over to the huddled up bundle on the couch, whose head was leaning against the armrest in front of John, large, naked feet sticking out of the blanket and over the armrest on the other side. For a moment he considered throwing the towel at Sherlock, like he had usually intended to do, but then that wet, luscious shock of dark curls just seemed too inviting. With Mrs. Hudson evidently out of the flat, he risked it. Even through the fabric of the towel they felt soft and thick.

Sherlock endured the gesture without protest. Then again, he had always been the one who seemed to be fine with making physical contact that was not usually observed in two best friends, even if they were living together. He probably just doesn't know. John had thought in the beginning. He's so awkward around people, he doesn't know that touching follows certain rules and can cross boundaries. But he had noticed soon that Sherlock hardly ever touched anyone else. Just him. With him it was always small touches on the arms, helping him into his coat, touching Johns temples in the desperate attempt to make him think faster or even just coming inappropriately close with his face while speaking. It had bewildered John at first, but he had gotten used. And now, sometimes when there had been no case for Sherlock in days and John was working and Sherlock was busy not letting the boredom destroy the last of his sanity, John found that he missed their closeness more and more frequently. Of course, he'd never confess that to anyone, least of all to Sherlock.

"Oh, look at you! Practically domestic."

Yeah, great.

"I'm just… I was just…" Oh, fuck it. I'll never get the idea out of her head anyway. He decided to let it go.

Several hours later everything was back to fairly normal. To Johns relieve, Sherlock had, at least partly, dressed in pyjama pants and his blue dressing gown. They were loitering on the couch, stuffing themselves with ordered Chinese food. John always enjoyed seeing Sherlock eat, because it calmed him to see that firstly: the man was actually human and needed to do human things every now and then, and secondly: he fulfilled these human needs. Seeing him going for days without food always troubled him somehow. Damn helpers' syndrome.

For about the tenth time since Sherlocks dramatic entrance earlier that day Mrs. Hudson bustled in to "check" if Sherlock was alright. John was pretty sure she was just doing it to see if anything more would happen between the two of them and Sherlock had told her to mind her own business rather rudely for several times. Still, she kept finding excuses to hover about the room every hour or so.

"I think I'll be off to bed." John announced during her latest visit, hoping he could bring her speculations to an end that way. At least for tonight.

"Yeah, probably for the best. Might as well catch up on some sleep."

John silently checked his friends' forehead for any sign of a fever when he thought Mrs. Hudson wasn't looking. There was a strange look on Sherlocks face as he endured the mothering gesture.

As John got up and started to clear away the remains of tonights dinner, Sherlock gently touched his shoulder as he tried to push past him. In the kitchen he did it again, carefully, almost imperceptibly laying his hand between Johns shoulder blades as he was brushing past him into his room.

"Good night. And, um, thanks for the… well, you know." Holmes ways of saying thanks for Johns taking care were always stuttered and a little akward, even after all these years.

"Night."

Moments of silence as John threw the empty food containers in the trash bin. Mrs. Hudson was still looming in the living room, curiously prying at him from a distance.

"Good night, Mrs. Hudson." John called meaningfully. Instead of going away, she came closer.

"You know, dear, I don't see why you're being so stubborn about this. It's really quite obvious, with all the touching. You know how he is. He never really likes to touch anyone, but it's different with you. Sometimes when both of you are at home, it's almost like a dance, so nice to watch. You waltz around each other in the room, trying to avoid it, but coming together again and again without even really noticing. It is as though you have some kind of physical attraction neither of you can resist. Like magnet poles or something. You should really just man up and do something about that."

"Um, thanks, Mrs. Hudson." It was all he could find in his head to reply.

"Good night, dear. You think on it." She told him, smiling at him compassionately as though saying 'you'll figure it out eventually' and left.