John felt odd, standing at Sherlock's door. Should he knock before entering? Surely they were friends now, beyond that. Weren't they?
Deciding to act normal, John just entered and walked straight to the lab.
Sherlock looked up as he entered, his eyes scanning over John from head to toe, and then he turned back to his microscope. "Oh, so you're back." His tone was flat. Dismissive.
"Um, yeah." John pushed a hand through his hair, feeling uncomfortable. He changed into his lab coat, and looked around his workstation. It hadn't been touched, at all. He had left some chopped dandelions in a sieve to drain, and they were all dried out, stuck to it. The beaker below had some sap in it, but it had dried into a dark stain. Sherlock had obviously not worked on it in his absence.
Shrugging his shoulders, John washed the equipment, leaving it to soak in water overnight to get the dried vegetation off.
"Sherlock," John said softly, not wanting to startle him when he was concentrating so hard. "Um, I need some more dandelions. Do you think I could use your street urchins?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Sure." He didn't look up.
"Um, do you have a way I can reach them?" John could tell Sherlock was in a bad mood, so didn't want to ask for too much.
"It's not like they have a home address you can send a letter to, John. They're street urchins." Sherlock drawled.
John huffed. Sherlock was being deliberately irritating. "Do you have a name, a contact person, anything?"
Sherlock glanced over at John, and then back at his work. "I can't remember."
Bullshit. His memory was fantastic.
"Fine," John growled. He got up and put his suit coat back on. "I'll figure it out. I'll be back when I get enough dandelions for processing."
"Suit yourself..." He heard Sherlock mumble as he left.
It had been a bit rainy the past week, and John spent the next few days in his oldest pair of boots and a thick sweater, hiking far and wide through the mud. At the end of it all, he only had a measly collection of the scraggliest dandelions, and he was tired and grouchy.
The next afternoon, he went into the lab, his mood still cloudy. It wasn't improved by Sherlock barely acknowledging him, before returning to his microscope.
Rolling his eyes, John worked on his weeds, and it wasn't long before they were chopped and draining. He picked up the dirty equipment, to carry it to the sink. With his hands full, John turned, and Sherlock was right there, in the way.
"Sherlock!" John complained, struggling to keep hold of everything. "Get out of the way."
Instead he straightened, standing even taller, looking down his nose at John. Challenging him.
Huffing, John stepped around him and dropped the equipment into the sink, grinning at the loud noise it made. As he washed up, he could see Sherlock glaring his way out of the corner of his eye. He didn't bother reacting to it, and eventually the brat spun away with a swirl of his robe.
The next day was no better. There wasn't much sap from the dandelions, and Sherlock bumped his arm when he was transferring it to a beaker, so John spilled some on the sleeve of his lab coat.
"Bloody Rantallion!" John exclaimed, jumping back and almost spilling the rest. He set down the container, and rubbed a rag against his clothing. "Can't you watch where you are walking?"
"Perhaps this lab isn't big enough for us both." Sherlock plunked down onto his stool, crossing his long legs, his eyes daring John to respond.
"It should be big enough for twenty people. As it is, there's hardly room for me and your over-blown sense of self-importance." John grumbled, stirring sulphur and zinc into his sap.
Sherlock spun around, facing his petri dish, and picking up a pipette. "No one is forcing you to come here, Dr. Watson."
With a sweep of his arm, John smiled as the glassware broke on the floor, a mess of wilted weeds and sap everywhere. "Fine, Mr. Holmes. I'll leave."
It felt quite satisfying to stomp out, slamming the door as he left the wing.
It took a couple days to cool down. John ended up going on some long rides, almost getting lost in his distracted state. It was strange how Sherlock could just push his buttons so easily, it hardly took a glare or a word to incite John. He was usually better at controlling his temper, usually a slow burn that took a lot to boil over.
As he finished up his afternoon appointments, there was a knock on the door. Billy passed him a note.
Sorry I was such an ass. The lab is available to you, now and always. – SH
John's hand shook as he pushed the note into his pocket, and sat down.
John entered the lab and found it empty. It looked surprisingly clean, no sign of broken glass or dandelion parts on the floor.
At John's workstation, there was his normal set up, but with the first step done. Sherlock must have had his helpers collect weeds and he processed them the day before. John had a good amount of sap to work with. It was a very kind peace offering.
Changing into his lab coat, John felt much better about being back now. Sherlock must have just been in a bad, bad mood. It happened to everyone occasionally. Now, if he noticed Sherlock like that again, John would either ask if he wanted to talk or give him some space.
John was getting quite good at his process now, making consistent products of a good quality. He was still tweaking a few variables, trying to lower the sulphur content without losing much strength.
About an hour later, he had finished his test run, leaving the samples to cure. There was still quite a bit of sap left over. It seemed a shame to waste it.
Looking it over, John got an idea. Something to surprise Sherlock with, if he could keep it out of the lab until it was done.
Sherlock was hard at work when he returned a couple days later. John did his normal things, and soon had a dozen condoms in his latest formulation completed.
"What's different about this batch?" Sherlock was suddenly standing right beside John, in that wizard way of his.
John still startled when he did that, but at least this time he didn't drop or spill anything. "Sherlock, have you ever heard of personal space? Back off a step or two, OK? I feel like you'll make me trip, standing so close."
Sherlock gave an exaggerated pained look as he took a half-step back. He looked pointedly at John's work, signalling for him to answer his question.
"These are low in sulphur. I need to test them, make sure they are strong enough." John picked one up, and got his funnel. Pretty soon, he laid the condom full of water on a towel.
Before he could say anything, Sherlock picked it up. He held the distended orb, squeezing it with his long fingers.
"Sherlock, put that down! You are going to break it." John snapped.
With a raised eyebrow, Sherlock tossed the water condom back to John. Scrambling to put both hands out, John caught it as gently as he could. It didn't break.
"Oh, sorry…," John grinned up at Sherlock, moving the orb back and forth between his hands. "I guess they are stronger than I thought they would be. This is great."
And just as he said that, the condom broke, sending a shower of water over his arm and soaking one of his trouser legs.
Sherlock turned away, shoulders shaking with laughter.
John huffed, and picked up another condom. He got it filled with water, but it burst as he transferred it to the towel. "Crap!" This formulation obviously wasn't strong enough. More sulphur was needed. "Well, I might as well just chuck these all out."
"Wait, don't do that. I have an idea." Sherlock stepped closer, putting a hand on John's arm to stop him.
Looking up, John could only laugh at the mischievous glint in those light green eyes.
"I'm going to see if I can get this one past the fountain." John laughed, looking down and trying to get a good feel for the distance. He pulled his arm back and threw hard.
The water condom flipped end over end, arching up before descending. It hit the edge of the fountain, bursting water everywhere.
"Not bad." Sherlock was already lifting his arm. His throw looked good, but the condom hit the gravel a few feet closer to them than John's.
Shaking his head, Sherlock grabbed another orb from the basin. "I think we need a better target. I should get Sally to tell Anderson to come by."
Leaning over the edge of the balcony, John peered down at the front steps. It would be pretty easy to drop a water condom on someone knocking on the door.
Just as he thought that, the door opened and Greg stepped out, his hands on his hips. "Oy! What are you two doing up there?"
Two water condoms landed on him seconds later. Sherlock and John grinned at each other.
Greg glared up at them, sputtering and slicking back his wet hair off his face. A second later, he spun around, slamming the front door hard.
It turned out Greg had the best throwing arm. John swore repeatedly that he would have done better before his injury. Sherlock sniffed, and said he was too busy reading to play much sport in school.
John felt relieved that their boyish silliness with the water condoms seemed to have made things more normal between them. It had been such a range of emotions the last few weeks. John, with all his erotic thoughts about Sherlock and his clients, then being away from him while he spent time with Mary. Then those days when they had both been grouchy and irritated with each other. John couldn't believe that he had called his friend, his boss, rude names and deliberately broken equipment. It had taken a while, but they were back to being friends.
He still had the occasional carnal thought about Sherlock, mostly from just being in close quarters with him in the lab most afternoons. Sherlock sometimes let out a pleased hum, getting excited about his research, and John always noticed it. Found himself looking at Sherlock a bit too much, tracing over his ass when he bent over, his long legs stretched out when he leaned back, thinking. His dark curls, often mussed up by his hands and needed to be smoothed down. Wanting to reach up and rub away a mark on his pale skin.
John had gotten very good at catching himself when he was noticing Sherlock in that way, and had become adept at distracting himself. He would turn away, and get busy with his project, or think about the opening paragraph of his favorite Dickens novel. Usually by the time he was trying to remember the last line, Sherlock had stopped doing whatever had caught his attention in the first place.
OK, I can handle this. John thought to himself, and felt he could manage coming to the lab most days.
He was so glad he had followed Harriet's advice. It would have been awful if he had grabbed Sherlock's hands back then, confessing his feelings and how much he wanted Sherlock. Sherlock got that constantly from clients, and people who wanted desperately to be with him. It would have just made Sherlock uncomfortable, probably make him regret letting John use the lab. Would have screwed up their fragile peace, their friendship. He wrote his sister about it, and she congratulated him for getting past this rough time.
Sherlock was wearing light grey pin-striped trousers, with a white dress shirt, standing near a window to look out. The afternoon sun made his skin almost glow, and John caught his breath at how good he looked.
"Hey Sherlock." John said, trying for a normal tone as he put on his lab coat. He kept his eyes on his work, no matter how much he wanted to look back. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times... John went through the words as he pulled out his materials.
...it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness... John got out a cutting board and a sharp knife. He unwrapped a package of long pointy leaves, slicing along their thick edge.
"What are you working on?" Sherlock was right beside John, disregarding his requests for personal space again.
...it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity... John sighed, only glancing quickly at the tall man at his side. "Um, it's a balm...something to treat burns for the cooks and other minor injuries."
But Sherlock wasn't moving away, still standing close, too close, watching as John spread the thick leaf open and scraped out the white gel inside.
...it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness... "Um, Sherlock, do you have any almond oil? I need a couple teaspoons or so, to keep this from oxidizing." When in doubt, get Sherlock to go find something. That should keep him busy for a few minutes, give John some breathing room.
"I think so." Sherlock walked over to a cupboard, looking over the labels of the various vials. He bent over, examining some bottles on the lower shelf. John indulged in a long, lingering look at his perfectly tailored trousers, before turning back to his work.
He was back when John was finishing with the second leaf. His eyes were interested as he watched John mix the oil into the gel. John scooped up some of the mixture, putting it into a small glass jar and closing it.
"Here, I'll help." Sherlock leaned against John to reach for one of the empty jars, and John inhaled sharply in surprise. Feeling Sherlock pressed up against him, the warmth of his body, his sandalwood soap scent...it sent a pang of arousal through John.
John stepped away, trying to keep focused on his task and not the oh-so-tempting man beside him.
"What are you muttering?" Sherlock asked, dipping his head to look at John, a slight smile on his lips. He looked so good, was so close...
John realized that he had said the next part of the paragraph out loud. "Oh, um... '...it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair...'"
Sherlock's eyes sparked with recognition. "'...we had everything before us, we had nothing before us...'" His voice drawled the words slowly, and John looked helplessly at his mouth as he said them.
John sighed. Now he would be thinking about Sherlock when he thought about that paragraph. He'd have to find another quote to memorize and use for distraction purposes.
Reaching for another jar, his hand bumped against Sherlock's, reaching for the same jar. When he scooped up more gel, Sherlock stepped close to do the same. He was just there, everywhere...
John tried breathing calmly, searching for the next words in his paragraph and coming up empty. This wasn't good, not good.
Go, go, leave... Alarms were going off now, and John knew he was reaching the edge of his control. All his carefully constructed defenses against Sherlock were crumbling, weak against all this.
John lowered his face, putting everything down, and turned fast to go. To leave the lab. It was the only thought he was focusing on now.
But as he often was lately, Sherlock was close, in his way. John bumped into him hard, sending them both off balance and Sherlock's hands grabbed John's upper arms to stabilize himself with a muttered "Oof!"
The contact clicked John's old army training, a surge of adrenaline zipping through his body. Without even thinking, John put his hands on Sherlock's waist and lifted the man, pushing him hard against the wall. Sherlock slid down slightly, his mouth open in surprise, gasping.
"I told you, stay out of my way." John growled into his face, glaring at the other man. Sherlock, so close, looking down at him with those wide green eyes, and with his hands on John... It was too much, too much...
Sherlock's eyes darkened, his gaze falling to John's mouth, looking a bit wrecked, still breathing fast. He looked so good, so close, still pinned against the wall by John's hands on his waist. John wasn't thinking straight, as he leaned in, taking that mouth, hard.
Sherlock gasped against his lips, and John just groaned and moved closer, pressing his chest against Sherlock's as he deepened the kiss. He wasn't gentle, greedily kissing the way he had wanted to for so long. One hand went up to the back of Sherlock's head, fisting into those curls to tilt him to an even better angle for his mouth.
With a stifled groan, John pulled back, looking at Sherlock. His eyes were a bit unfocused, his lips still parted and tempting John to kiss them some more.
The reality of what he had just done crashed down on him. John straightened up with a curse, pushing Sherlock away hard, and practically ran out of the lab.
In his own room, John tore off his lab coat, and threw it into the corner of the room. He sunk down onto the bed, pushing his hands through his hair.
"Shite, shite, shite…" John closed his eyes, trying to block out the thoughts swirling around his head. In only a few minutes, he had destroyed everything. Not only had he shoved Sherlock against a wall, he had taken advantage of his stunned state and kissed him. Hard.
How long until Greg knocked on the door, with a bunch of his footmen, and waited while John packed up his possessions and they escorted him out? There was no way he could apologize and have this forgiven. He had totally overstepped everything. Sherlock was his friend, his boss, and what he had done was unforgivable.
The whole scene replayed again and again in his mind, and John shook his head. How could he have been such an idiot? Sherlock could have his pick of anyone he wanted. He didn't want to have some poor, short doctor pawing at him because he dared to stand too close. Those few minutes meant that he was now out of work.
Where would he sleep tonight? He pictured knocking on Mike's door, his case in hand, seeing his look of disappointment. Being a burden who had botched up the great opportunity Mike had given him.
Stupid, stupid…. John sighed, getting off the bed. Opening up the wardrobe, he pulled out his old suitcase, unlatching it and setting it on his chair. Might as well start packing now.
There was a knock on the door. John's stomach clenched. That hadn't taken long.
Shoulders slumping in resignation, John walked to the door, pausing a second to brace himself. He opened it wide.
Sherlock. John was frozen in the doorway, blinking.
"Don't just leave me standing here, John." Sherlock said neutrally, his gaze direct, revealing nothing.
Shaking himself out of his trance, John stepped back and waved for Sherlock to enter. Sherlock, in my room. This day was just getting stranger.
The room seemed even smaller than normal with Sherlock standing in the middle of it. It was a simple room, just a single bed, a wardrobe and a small desk in front of the window. Sherlock looked at the open suitcase on the chair, and then at John with an arched eyebrow. He sat down on John's bed.
Sherlock, on my bed. John moved the suitcase and sat down on the chair, feeling a bit numb.
"Sherlock… I'm so, so sorry for what happened before. I was completely wrong, completely inappropriate. I don't know what came over me…" John rushed to say, just wanting to make any amends he could.
The tall man nodded, his eyes on John's face, so quiet. What was he thinking? Why wasn't he acting mad? Yelling at John? He wasn't one who held back on telling people what he thought of them.
Swallowing hard, John waved towards the suitcase. "Look, I'll pack and leave tonight. No need to fire me. I'll go quietly."
Sherlock's green eyes went to the suitcase, and then back to John. Still, so quiet. Watching, waiting. What did he want? More of an apology? For John to grovel?
John ran his hands over his face. "Look, I don't know what else I can say so you'll understand how awful I know my actions were. I never should have kissed you like that…"
Sherlock leaned closer, his eyes still so big, the motion cutting off John's fumbling apology. "How should you have kissed me?"
Speechless, John just blinked at Sherlock. Had he heard him right? Did he mean…?
Heart pounding, John moved to sit beside Sherlock on the bed. The taller man turned to face him, a welcoming motion, not shrinking away at all. Slowly, John raised a hand, placing it against Sherlock's jaw. He stayed still, his eyes still on John's, barely breathing.
Nervous, but knowing there was no way he would let this chance go, John slid his hand to the back of Sherlock's neck, the short hair on his nape tickling along his fingers. He pulled Sherlock forward, leaning in until their mouths were only a hair's breadth away from each other, pausing there. Giving Sherlock a chance to pull back, stop this, if he wanted to. He didn't.
Closing his eyes, John leaned in to brush his lips over Sherlock's. Lightly. Feeling them soften, open. Inviting John to do more. He did. Pressing firmer kisses against those lovely, full lips, short kisses that had Sherlock leaning closer for more. John grinned a little to himself at that, that tiny reaction, and nibbled at Sherlock's bottom lip.
With a groan, Sherlock's hands grabbed John's head, and he deepened the kiss. John happily kissed him back, glorifying in it. Getting lost in it.
Somehow, they were laying back on the bed, side by side, the kisses long and perfect. John could do this forever.
Pulling back, he looked at the man laying beside him, his hair mussed by John's hands, his lips swollen from the kissing. Looking happy and so beautiful.
Sherlock's mouth tilted up a little on one side. "'…we were all going direct to Heaven…'"
Leaning his forehead against Sherlock's, John gave a wry smile back. "'…we were all going direct the other way…'"
Giving a small scoff, Sherlock's smile was warm and tender. "Well, at least we'll be going there together."
-Disclaimer: I own nothing.
-A/N: More coming soon...
Rantallion: A weirdly specific Victorian word meaning "one whose scrotum is longer than his penis." It not used much anymore, but I think it's deserving of a revival.
Skin Balm: John is making a soothing balm out of aloe vera gel and almond oil.
Dickens: This is the first paragraph out of 'A Tale of Two Cities'.