A/N: Thank you, my solitary reviewer! I'm still working out the storyline, but I've got the main plot and the next few chapters mapped out, so they shouldn't take too terribly long. I'll be switching POV every chapter, and Sherlock's is a very difficult POV to write from. I never feel like I do him justice. So his chapters will take longer. I hope you continue to enjoy, and please, review! It's the fuel to my fire.
Chapter Two
John had to force down the sigh that threatened to rise up in his chest. It wasn't easy. Dinner had been lovely of course, the conversation had been good, Kate was pretty, in a soft kind of way, but the night was winding to a close and all he felt was a sense of impatience. He just wanted to go home.
When had this become a chore? Of course he wanted a relationship, he was tired of sleeping alone, of wanking off in the middle of the night when he absolutely needed a physical release and having no one else to give him one. It had been a long time, too long, since he had been with a woman. He was happy with his life, certainly. He had a decent if a little boring job at the hospital. He had a great gig going with Sherlock. Honestly, the cases were the highlight of his life. He felt alive when they worked together, solving elaborate crimes that would evade all but the brightest of minds. And Sherlock, for all his faults, was such a mind.
John's life had changed drastically since Sherlock Holmes had accosted him that fateful day, sticking his nose into John's business and practically forcing him to move in with him. It was possibly the most reckless decision he had ever made. And he wouldn't change it for the world.
Sherlock was rude, impossible, childish, intimidating, eccentric, and bloody brilliant. He was most definitely the most amazing man that John had ever met. John was still helpless as he watched him work, unable to do anything but gape in amazement and he came to conclusions that simply blew his mind. It was impressive, his dark intelligence, his thoughtless and cutting wit. He drew John in, as though he was a great big magnet and John was powerless to resist his pull. No matter how many times Sherlock insulted him, forgot him, berated him and pushed him around, John just kept going back for more. He couldn't help himself.
As for the situation earlier that morning, when Sherlock leaned in so close, his deep voice nearly whispering in John's ear, he had the strangest urge to press just a little bit closer… Which of course was ridiculous, as he was not attracted to men, and not the least amount attracted to Sherlock. At least not in that way. Sherlock, for all John knew, was celibate. He had never seen the man show any interest in anyone, he lived for his work, as he had told him himself.
Of course, that didn't stop everyone else from assuming that the two of them were together. John had stopped trying to deny it, as he saw no point when Sherlock simply smiled charmingly and glossed over the subject as though sparing John the uncomfortable discussion about their private life together. John sometimes suspected that Sherlock let the rumors about their relationship spread, even encouraged it. Why, he had no clue.
"John? Are you ready to go?" Kate asked, her voice sinking into him slowly. Her dark brown hair slid over her shoulder as she leaned forward, studying his face. He smiled apologetically at her as he sat back in his chair. How long had he been staring off in space, thinking about his bloody roommate?
"Yes, I am." He replied, before slipping a suitable stack of bills on the table before they stood and took their leave.
Not long after he was sliding the key into the door at 221 B Baker Street. He found that he didn't regret that Kate had not invited him over to her flat, or that they had parted a little too easily. Relief flooded through him as he closed the door behind him, locking it and walking up the familiar stairs. He could hear a rustling, a frustrated sound that made him smile.
"No, no, no, I will not have it. I will simply not have it." Sherlocks smooth irate voice beckoned at him from the kitchen as he closed the front door behind him. He stood there, in front of the fridge, his tall body bent at the waist over the sink and wearing nothing but a wrinkled grey sheet. John's grey sheet. From his bed.
"Sherlock, why are you wrapped up in my sheet?" He asked, pausing in the doorway to the kitchen. Sherlock didn't turn as he answered, but continued to stay bent, intent on whatever held his attention on the counter.
"My sheets are dirty. I needed a sheet. Yours had to do. How long have you been back?"
"I've only just arrived. What are you doing?" John asked, walking into the kitchen and around Sherlock's body to see what he was studying.
His eye was glued to a microscope, fiddling with the dials with one hand as he held his sheet with the other. A small glass slide was in place, with a dark hair secured between the glass. John briefly considered asking who's hair he was studying, but thought better of it. He probably didn't want to know.
"Sherlock, I'm tired. I'd like to go to bed. Please tell me you have something on under that sheet so I can have it back." He said, leaning against the counter as the pale man mumbled something unintelligible to himself. "Sherlock, my sheet, please."
"Do you realize what this means?" He suddenly asked, turning to John and invading his personal space. Again. His bright blue eyes stared eagerly at John, willing him to understand his most recent epiphany.
"No, but do enlighten me." John said, shrugging out of his jacket and laying it on the counter.
"Though this hair is, I am disappointed to admit, free of any type of drug, it holds plenty more that needs to be discussed and considered if you are to enter into a long term relationship with this woman." Sherlock began, gesturing at the slide as he did so.
"Wait, is that Kate's hair?" John asked, gaping at his flatmate. Sherlock, of course, ignored his question.
"There are quite a few dust fibers attached to the strand, which can only mean that the girl hardly ever cleans and her flat is probably a downright disaster."
"Oh you're one to talk! How did you get that hair?" John demanded. He could feel the angry red flush creeping up his neck.
"I've also found traces of sodium bentonite clay. Do you know what that is John? Cat litter! Cat litter, John! She has cats!" Sherlock professed, moving even closer to John's face.
"Oh for the love of-"
"I can not handle the cats John!" Sherlock nearly pleaded, his arm swinging up in the air as he threw what surely amounted to be a fit. John tried to turn away, determined to walk away and leave Sherlock to his insanity. He was foiled however, when Sherlocks free hand suddenly lashed out and gripped his shoulder tightly, swinging him back around.
"Did you have a nice evening then?" He asked, his voice deceptively light. John opened his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off again. "Was dinner good? I've had the ravioli from Lettie's, it is quite delicious. I'm sure you enjoyed it. Did she talk too much? Did you enjoy the way her shirt lingered just a little too low to be decent? Did she bat her eyes at you enough? Or were you not paying attention? What were you thinking of, John, as she attempted to flit her simple mind and shapely tits at you?" Sherlock asked, his tone grower more and more uneven as he spoke. John could only stare up at him in amazement as, once again, Sherlock baffled him.
"Did you follow me?" He asked, unable to say anything else.
"And why did you show such a loss of interest near the close of the evening. The poor twit was obviously enraptured by you, even despite your lack of enthusiasm." He asked, his voice going even lower, his face so close that if either of them breathed too deeply they might touch.
John was befuddled, he couldn't think straight. Sherlock had shown signs of displeasure before when it came to John's dates, but he had always assumed that Sherlock was merely not used to not having all of the attention. But this, this level of distaste was something else entirely. This was almost unhealthy.
"What has come over you?" John suddenly asked, and he might as well have slapped Sherlock, the dark haired man recoiled so fast, grasping the sheet tighter around himself.
"I've decided that I'm tired too. I'm going to retire. I'll see you in the morning, bright and early." He said, his voice completely back to normal. John stared as Sherlock marched rigidly away from him and towards his bedroom. It wasn't until he was halfway across the room that John thought to inquire halfheartedly about his sheet, to which Sherlock responded by, without the slightest pause, simply letting the garment fall, leaving his naked arse to slam the door so hard that it rattled the frame.
John gaped at the door for a moment, his mouth hanging open in which surely must be an unattractive manner before he was able to gather his wits enough to stride across the room and snatch his crumpled sheet off of the floor. He huffed, folding it over his arm and strode quickly back to his room, mumbling to himself about ridiculous flatmates and temper tantrums as he began to undress. It wasn't until he had crawled into bed, his sheet tucked firmly around him, that he realized that it smelled of Sherlock.
The sound of Sherlock's violin woke John, the strings being ripped at so quickly that the screeching must have been easily heard half a mile away. John groaned, twisting around and shoving a pillow over his head in an attempt to escape the wretched noise.
Sherlock was quite the talented violinist, of this there was no question, but it was obvious to John that he was playing this morning to express his frustration, rather than to enjoy the music. John soon gave up his listless effort to go back to sleep and pulled himself out of his bed, dressing quickly before heading to the loo.
When John entered the sitting area minutes later, he found Sherlock standing on the coffee table in the middle of the sitting room, fully dressed in his royal purple button up and black trousers, his bare feet pale against the wood as he blessed the instrument with undivided attention. He decided to set about making coffee, conscious of his flatmate's demanding ruckus in the next room.
John was nearly finished, settling the cups into their saucers, when the screeching came to a sudden halt. He stilled, listening, waiting for some sign of Sherlocks mood from the previous night to resurface. He was listening so intently, that the sharp sound of Sherlock's violin case being set on the counter directly behind him made him jump.
"My God, Sherlock. You nearly scared me out of my skin. Stomp or something, would you?" John stuttered, returning to his coffee.
"It is not my fault that you are sorrowfully unobservant." He replied dryly, holding a hand out for his cup. John scowled up at him, but handed him the cup and saucer regardless.
"Feeling better this morning?" John asked, wary of Sherlocks response as he leaned against the counter, facing his flatmate.
"Marginally. Though I would feel much better if we had a damn case. Have you checked our email?" He asked, narrowing his sharp eyes at John over the rim of his cup.
"Not yet, but I will." John answered, unable to fully disguise the relief in his voice. Sherlock stared at him, those intrusive eyes burning a hole into his skin.
John suddenly had a very vivid image of Sherlock's naked backside, his long legs flexing as he walked across the room away from him. A warm sensation in the pit of his stomach made him pause, redness creeping up his neck. What in the world was that about?
Sherlock's eyes, if possible, narrowed even more, as though he could just see what John was thinking. John was, thank God, spared the inevitable question when they heard a knock at the door. Sherlock didn't move an inch, his eyes still fixated on Johns face, following him as the shorter man inched around him and towards the door.
Mrs. Hudson stood there, her kind face smiling sweetly as she held up a covered porcelain dish.
"Good morning, I made some breakfast and I thought you boys might be hungry? I've got some eggs and lovely spiced sausage from the meatery down the street." She simpered, handing the dish to John.
"Ah thank you Mrs. Hudson, how nice of you. Sherlock? Fancy some breakfast?" He called, turning and allowing Mrs. Hudson to follow him into the apartment. Sherlock was still standing by the counter, but his eyes were staring off in space, completely oblivious to his surroundings. Ignoring him, John set the dish on the counter and pulled the cover off carefully. The smell of sausage wafted up at him, causing his mouth to water.
"This looks fantastic." He said, smiling over at his elderly landlady.
"Oh it tastes wonderful too, that nice man at the meatery recommended it, said it was fresh off the rack-" Her words were interrupted by another knock at the door. Sherlock sighed next to him.
"Well aren't we popular this morning." He said, his words coming out sounding more irritable than pleased.
John excused himself and walked back to the door, opening it to find Detective Lastrade standing there, his expression pained. As though he sensed his presence, Sherlock stuck his head around the corner brightly.
"Detective, how are you this lovely morning?" He inquired, his entire attitude changing. John rolled his eyes, preparing to scarf down a quick breakfast before they needed to leave.
"Dark business, I'm afraid. I need you to come take a look at a crime scene for me…" His words faded out as John hastily scraped some eggs and sausage on a plate, giving Mrs. Hudson a quick peck on the cheek before carrying the plate to his room. He dressed quickly, stealing a bite between slipping on his pants and buttoning up his shirt.
By the time he entered the kitchen, Sherlock was already impeccably dressed and sharp as a tack. He was questioning the detective eagerly, more eagerly than usual, probably because he was so excited that there was finally some work to be done.
"John? John are you coming?" Sherlock called from near the door, where the detective was departing.
"Do you need me to?" John called back, more out of habit than curiosity as he placed his empty plate in the sink before rounding the corner to see Sherlock waiting for him expectantly, with a smile on his face.
"Of course John. I'll always need my doctor."
