Chapter Thirteen

It took John a while to find any kind of store that did not only sell herbal tea, books on fairy magic or sugar canes. He tried a bigger department store, but none of the trousers there seemed to come in Sherlock's size. "Skinny bastard," John muttered to himself as he left the store without any new trousers, but with an umbrella. He walked down the streets which were glistening in the rain. It was above zero degrees, and he felt something like a warm wind in between bouts of rain. Not very many people were actually out on the street, but the pubs were full of noise and laughter.

He smiled as he walked uphill, ending up at the castle. He felt relaxed and safe and happy. Maybe a bit chilly, but overall he was incredibly happy to be where he was, right at that moment, looking down on the small town, tiny lights spreading out into the landscape, rain clouds hanging low over the hills. A small laugh escaped his lips. He had never been one for the country. He loved London, always had, and he couldn't really imagine living anywhere else. But this, this seemed healthy. Maybe one day he and Sherlock would move away from London. Maybe one day he would have enough of the buzz and crime and mystery of the city. Good God, when had he turned into such a romantic?

Shaking his head at himself, he walked back down into the city centre, wondering if Sherlock was actually waiting for him to come back, or whether he was immersed in yet another case that suddenly made sense to him because he knew what reciprocated sexual attraction was like. John also wondered whether Sherlock being jealous of Lestrade would turn out to be useful for him. Sherlock would probably never admit to it, but it was obvious. It was almost a blessing that John didn't have very many friends of which Sherlock could be utterly irrationally jealous of.

John found himself looking at a shop window. Oxfam. This was too good a chance to pass up. If he would manage to find Sherlock a pair of jeans that had had a previous owner and get Sherlock to wear it, John would know that Sherlock would do anything for him. Shaking the rain from his umbrella he entered the store, which was just about to close. Fishing the now soaked piece of paper from his pocket, he asked for trousers of that size, and, unable to shake off the silly grin on his face, was actually shown several pairs of jeans.

John tried to imagine which pair would look good on Sherlock, and while he carefully ran his fingers over the fabric he was brought a cup of tea and biscuits by the shop owner. "We don't have many visitors here in the winter months, you see," she said, shrugging as John thanked her with a surprised smile. "And this weather isn't really helping either."

"I can imagine," John nodded, sipping his tea. "It's quite a lovely place, Winchester."

The woman nodded, cleaning her classes with the cuff of her jumper. "It is, isn't it? It's small, but the people here love to be here. That's always a good thing. Nice community, you see."

John nodded and turned back to the jeans. He held one pair up against the dim light in the shop. It looked smaller than the others, more slim fit. He wondered if Sherlock would refuse to wear tight jeans. When John felt his ears turn red, he put it down again and picked up a bigger pair, which was still relatively slim.

"It would be easier if he just came in himself to try them on," the owner remarked drily, making John laugh.

"He had an ...accident, and doesn't have another pair to actually go out in to get new ones."

"Men..." the woman said, shaking her head in disapproval. John chuckled again.

"There's lots of fairy stories around here, no?"

"Ah, most of it is nonsense. Tourism, you see. But then there are some old folk who swear on their lives that they've had experiences."

"Before or after getting drunk?" John asked, deciding to take both pairs and at first only tell Sherlock about the tight ones.

The woman laughed heartily. "You can ask them. They are down in the south and usually sit in front of their houses, keeping their eyes and ears open, they say."

John smiled and pulled out his wallet, handing her twice the amount of money that the labels on the trousers displayed. "Thank you, for the tea and the chat, and the jeans, obviously. I'm sure he'll be grateful."

"Be safe, young man," she said when she opened the door for him. Something about that struck him as strange.

"Thanks, have a good night." He walked back towards the hotel, wondering why her last words had struck a chord in him. It wasn't because it seemed ironic in a town like Winchester to be told that. Maybe it was just something they said, like a blessing, a good wish for the road. When the rain took up again and stopped to open his umbrella and as he turned to stand against the wind he found himself staring at the window of a pharmacy. John burst out laughing and jogged across the street. A few people were still in it, and he stepped into the neon light that filled the room.

"Are you still open?"

"Barely," came a comment from behind the counter. The three people in the back of the shop approached and paid for a collection of nicotine patches and condoms. John quickly walked to where they had last stood and felt himself blush as he picked out the same items from the shelves. His hand shook lightly when he also grabbed a bottle of lube and he tried to tell himself that this was all natural and that these items were there to be bought and used, but why in the world did he have to do it in person. He felt as if the man behind the till would be able to read in his face that he was about to attempt sleeping with his boyfriend and that he had never done that before, because the blush would give him away. He promised himself to never pass this shop again whenever they went out, especially not if Sherlock was with him.

"Can I help you?" the man asked, lifting his head to look at him, once, only to go back reading in his magazine again.

"Cough drops?" John stammered, feeling the strong urge to kick himself for being so bloody immature about all of this.

"Right behind you," the voice said, sounding bored. John randomly grabbed a bag and walked to the till, carefully placing the packs in front of him. The man didn't even look at his face as he slowly scanned the tags, leaning back to grab a small plastic bag into which he stuffed John's purchase in a decidedly uninterested manner and took his money without a comment.

John left the shop with a quiet 'good bye' and giggled to himself all the way to the hotel. He was glad that almost no people were around to hear him, because he must have sounded mad, or drunk, or both. He was greeted by the hotel staff as he walked towards their room. Just before he reached the door, the concierge came walking up to him. "Dr. Watson, when will you take dinner?"

John knew he must have looked slightly shell shocked at the formulation, but he managed to shake himself out of it and shrugged. "Eight, maybe?"

"Will you come down or do you prefer room service?"

John smiled. "Oh, we'll come down," he said, knowing that Sherlock would protest.

"Very well."

John opened the door and found Sherlock still sitting by the window. He wasn't naked anymore, but wore a very fluffy looking white bathrobe. It was warm in the room, and John wondered how, because he could see no central heating and there was no fireplace. And Sherlock was warm, but not warm enough to heat the room with his body temperature. John giggled again.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and then looked up. "You didn't drink. You most certainly didn't take any drugs. You are mentally stable, mostly. Why are you giggling like that?"

John snorted and stripped out of his coat, hanging it over the back of the chair. Then he kicked off his shoes and took the bags and the umbrella into the bathroom. He towelled his hair dry as he walked up to Sherlock, taking the file from his hands and planting a soft kiss on his lips.

"That was nice," Sherlock remarked, cocking his head in interest.

John could feel heat seeping through his socks and he understood that the heating must have come from under the floorboards. "I got you a pair of jeans," John said, holding onto Sherlock's knee while he lifted his foot to get rid of his wet sock. "Go and take a shower, we're having dinner downstairs."

Sherlock sighed and looked out of the window. "Thank you," he said quietly. John grinned and picked the other sock off his foot. "Oh, I can think of a few ways in which you can thank me later," he whispered before moving away.

Sherlock stood and shed the bathrobe where he was, but John carefully looked away. He walked back into the bathroom to put the bag from the pharmacy into one of the drawers there before Sherlock would find it. "I got you nicotine patches, just in case you need some," he said as he walked out again, this time letting his eyes roam over Sherlock's naked body. "And you have no idea how hard it is to find you a decent pair of trousers. Seriously, those legs of yours...and where did you get the bathrobe anyway?" Sherlock stepped closer to him, putting his hands on John's waist, pulling him closer.

"What are you so nervous about?" he asked, his voice deep and rumbling.

John stared at him, fighting down the blush that was threatening to creep into his cheeks. He didn't quite succeed. "Nothing," he lied, swallowing as his gaze fell on Sherlock's lips. "Although I think the constant state of arousal is slowly taking its toll on my mental health," he added with a sheepish grin.

"Is that your medical diagnosis?" Sherlock asked amused.

John nodded and rose on his toes to bring his face closer to Sherlock's. The cut was almost invisible, but he knew it would break again if they kissed properly. "You should watch out. I don't want your brain to suffer from the same fate." John could feel Sherlock's hands tighten and his breath caught.

"Shower," Sherlock nodded and let go of John, stepping around him and disappearing in the bathroom.

"Jesus," John whispered, sitting down on one chair, rubbing his face. There really was no going back now. He had the distinct feeling that even if Sherlock was incredibly rude and impossibly unsympathetic, he would still be attracted him, and maybe exactly for that reason.

He pulled the smaller pair of jeans out of the bag and laid it out on the bed. He needed to see Sherlock putting them on. He hoped they weren't too small for him, because that would be a shame, really. He changed into a pair of dry jeans himself and got rid of his jumper. The room temperature was just right. Not too hot, but cosy and warm enough to be able to feel relaxed and happy while the rain continued to tap against the window.

"You were out for quite a while," Sherlock commented when he came back from the bathroom.

"Did you miss me?" John asked with a smirk, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't admit to that; not under the circumstances. "I mean, it was you who sent me out."

He didn't receive an answer, and when he turned around he saw Sherlock standing in front of the bed, eyeing the jeans with a strange expression. Then his face lit up in a grin that did weird things to John's stomach. "What?" he asked, his voice sounding somewhat strained.

Sherlock just gave him the 'you're an idiot' look, and turned to produce a pair of black boxer briefs from his bag. He dropped the towel and stepped into his underwear, ignoring John's stare. Then he picked up the jeans and gave John another grave look before he stepped into them, pulling them up. They fit, just so. He had to wriggle a bit to pull them over his arse and John found himself biting the palm of his hand as not to make embarrassing sounds at the sight, but when he zipped them up, they fit, perfectly.

John knew Sherlock could hear him swallow. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea in the first place. Those jeans would be incredibly distracting, and something told John that Sherlock would use that to his advantage.

Without a word, Sherlock grabbed a shirt, pulled it over his shoulders and started buttoning it. How the shirt hadn't wrinkled in Sherlock's bag was beyond John. Once he was done dressing, leaving the upper two buttons unfastened, he ran his fingers through his hair and turned to the window. John couldn't keep his eyes up. Good God those jeans were tight.

"When we actually go out, I'll wear the other pair," Sherlock remarked with a smirk. "I do understand why you got these, but I don't want you to get into an accident because you are distracted."

"Alright," John croaked, not even bothering to ask how he knew there was a second pair. Sherlock just kept looking out of the window, but John realised that he couldn't possibly see anything out there in the dark. He looked closer and saw Sherlock watching him through the reflection. Heat was rising in his chest as he remembered the same situation, barely two months ago, when Sherlock had regarded him just like that. He exhaled shakily and then stepped forward, wrapping himself around Sherlock from behind, pressing his face against his shoulder, feeling warm strong hands cover his own on Sherlock's chest.

"I thought of you as my boyfriend earlier," John murmured against Sherlock's shirt. "That sounds weird even in my head."

Sherlock didn't answer, but John knew he was smiling.

"Do you want to have dinner? I'm starving."

"You told them eight, it's only seven," Sherlock remarked quietly.

"What do you recon then?"

Sherlock chuckled. "I thought you were the creative one?"

John huffed and pulled back a bit, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's spine, looking down. "Those fucking jeans," he murmured, exhaling shakily. "How is it possible that you have such a great arse?"

Sherlock laughed silently. "Genes," he answered, laughing harder at his word play.

John giggled and pulled his arms from Sherlock's chest and grabbed Sherlock's buttocks. Sherlock grew very still, his hands coming to rest on the window sill. When John squeezed, he could feel a light tremble run through Sherlock's entire body. He pushed his hands into the back pockets and squeezed again, extracting a small desperate sound from Sherlock.

"God, I need to stop," John grunted, forcing himself to remove his hands from Sherlock's arse. "I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Because if I don't stop, you'll have to get another pair of trousers cleaned."

"I don't think I could ejaculate in these, they are too tight," Sherlock remarked, turning around to show John just how tight they were, now that he was aroused again.

John squeezed his eyes shut. "Okay," he exhaled shakily.

Sherlock grinned. "I do like a challenge, though."

"Sherlock, no," John tried to control the ultimate urge to press his hand against the heat between Sherlock's legs, and having him encourage that didn't really help his resistance.

"I'll go down and have a drink," he said, grabbing his jumper. Sherlock grinned a very happy grin at him. "Don't drink too much. I don't want you drunk or hung-over this week."

The bar was small, and only one other man sat there, nursing what seemed to be his third pint after a few shots, as a few empty glasses already sat around him on the counter. John ordered a lager and spent a good five minutes staring into the yellow liquid.

Why was he running away again? He could just do whatever he wanted. When, if not now? Who cared whether they would actually have dinner. Was it too much freedom that made him feel the need to hold back? Was Sherlock giving himself up to him too freely when everyone else could barely scratch the surface? Was he afraid of the immensity of his emotions? Was he afraid of taking what he wanted because there might be nothing left to take afterwards?

"John." Sherlock slipped in the seat next to him, looking a little worried. "Stop thinking."

John turned to look at him, shrugging. "I can't, not really. You know how it is."

Sherlock's features softened, but he was guarded, knowing they were not alone. "I understand that you are afraid," he murmured, almost inaudible, but John understood him. "I am so very afraid, but then I force myself to relax and remember that it's you I'm involved with. You. Do you understand?"

John nodded, but he still couldn't quite shake the feeling of dread. "It's not that I am overwhelmed by all of this. I mean, I am," he frowned and looked into his glass, "but I'm so scared that this might be over again soon. I don't know why, but there is this constant thought that something will come between us, even if I cannot for the life of me fathom what that could be."

"Moriarty?"

"No, yes. No, I mean, it might just be a car that doesn't break fast enough. It might be a heart attack or a stupid decision. Sherlock, the more I let myself feel, the more scared I become of losing you."

"I know," Sherlock nodded, gently squeezing his knee.

John shook his head in defeat. "I'm sorry, I'm spoiling it all, aren't I?"

Sherlock actually grinned at him and then rested one hand at the back of John's head and pulled him in for a kiss. "You're doing fine," he said, sounding absolutely sincere. Then he took John's glass and drank.

"Oi, order your own," John complained, gently nudging his ribs. When Sherlock didn't let go of the glass he sighed in defeat and ordered a new one for himself. "Idiot," he murmured before he drank, earning a light kick against his leg for that. Once he had swallowed enough beer to feel a warm tingle in his stomach, he put his glass down and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who still hadn't let go of his glass, taking small sips now and then, watching him calmly.

"We should go and see the castle tomorrow," John said after a long period of silence.

"Anything interesting about it?"

"It was King Alfred's castle," John said, already seeing a blank expression settle on Sherlock's features. "You know, old capital and all that."

Sherlock made a non committed sound.

"I'm sure there was a dungeon somewhere as well," John said, the hope to interest Sherlock audible in his voice.

Sherlock smiled at John's good intentions. "Alright," he said, his knee pressing lightly against John's leg and John couldn't help but grin.

"Gentlemen, if you want to take your dinner now?"

John and Sherlock exchanged an amused look and then got up, taking their pints with them and sat down in the winter garden to eat.