Chapter 9: The Lines Begin To Blur
John stares blindly at his medical journal, the article on subdural hygroma laughing at him again, but that's not the pressing thought in his mind. No, that would be the fact that tonight Sherlock has attained his goal for the dinner - currently he's kneeling quietly, hands limply on his upper thighs, back straight, eyes cast down demurely away from John - on the floor. On the floor beside John's feet, in just his swimming costume! 'I wonder if he was ever a diver,' John thinks unassumingly, 'makes sense with his hight, and long lean muscles.'
Thankful to be close to the end of this crazy ride, called 'practicing', he shifts a bit in his chair to reach for his tea. Looking down at Sherlock's back while sipping his hot tea, John smiles a bit. His flatmate, is a force of nature, that's for sure! A tall imposing individual with his muscles covered in all that pale creamy skin, not to mention all that dark curly hair and piercing eyes...
A shiver of excitement trickles down John's spine as he thinks about the upcoming dinner with excitement. 'Or,' his mutinous mind supplies, 'could it be your thinking about how dead sexy Sherlock is going to be in his costume.' John thinks to himself idly while going to drink his tea that's gone cold.
'Wait a minute, what was that?' John pauses mid-swallow to backtrack, 'did I just think that Sherlock is sexy?' A feeling of horror seeps into his gut, 'I reject the idea that I'm attracted to Sherlock - then why do I want to bend him over the work table, yank down that speedo and just ram my cock into him?' A low moan is warring it's way out of his throat as the image in his mind takes on a life of it's own.
Sherlock smiles inwardly at their success, not only is John no longer so awkward with the situation, but Sherlock has actually managed kneeling here in a fairly comfortable position for quite some time, and his brain isn't tying him in knots from boredom: yes, he has a stack of 'cheat sheets' on the chair at the end of their work table, but he hasn't looked at even one tonight. No doubt about it, this is the longest time they've managed to sit there without the boredom getting to him; he's about to congratulate John when he feels the man behind him lock up, head to foot.
Turning his upper body, his mouth already open to reprimand John for letting what ever it is that's bothering him ruin their practice, he's stopped cold, as only a creak escapes, Sherlock takes in the scene before his eyes - he deductions begin to unfold in his mind.
The medical journal lies forgotten in John's hand, propped against the arm of the chair, he's leaning forward a bit in his chair, his breathing is erratic and he's staring vacantly at the work table he and Sherlock use for their desk. Sherlock tilts his head a bit concentrating. There is a flush to John's face that has traveled down his neck, so this has built slowly, his expression has a cast of horror, his pupils are dilating as the horror is displaced.. by...oh.
John looses the battle with the moan, choking it out lowly.
Sherlock's eyebrows disappear behind his fringe, suddenly it's very obvious. The horror is displaced by lust, John is in the grip of some sexual phantasy that involves their work table. Shaking his head, Sherlock goes back to his deductions, and scans John again. He can now see a fine film of sweat on John's forehead and upper lip, his fingers have slid slightly from their position on the journal - indicating sweaty palms as well - his gaze tracking downward, Sherlock notices John is holding his thighs apart, as far as he can in his chair. Why?
Eyes widening in shock, Sherlock realises John is making room for his (*python* his brain adds helpfully) erection!
Heat rushes up Sherlock's backbone as he realises that this is not a situation he wants to be in again - an observer of John's lust for some unknown woman - John moans again, and Sherlock comprehends quickly that he has to get out of this room, before that immutable part of his brain decides it wants more information.
Dismayed, Sherlock notes his belly is tingling and the heat traveling his backbone has pooled in his groin with intent. Stifling his own moan, he leaps to his feet and shuffles to the bathroom for another cold shower.
John is jolted out of his motionless revery by the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut and the shower switching on. With a sigh he opens his trousers and stares down at his erection angrily. "I didn't tell you you could lust after Sherlock you idiot!"
Throwing the magazine down, John holds up his trousers with one hand and heads to his room to 'deal' with his problem.
