A/N: Ah, two more reviews! Excellent, that's what I'm talking about. Thank you for your words, they are very much appreciated. Do feel free to review any/all chapters and leave comments or suggestions or even constructive criticism.
Chapter Four
A soft jingle from his pocket alerted John of the text. The one that he just knew was from Sherlock. He kept his eyes on Kate, determined to ignore it. She showed no sign of having heard the gentle sound, continuing to talk about her family without pause. John listened patiently, even smiled at her comment about hers and her sisters childhood antics, but the phone in his pocket seemed to grow heavier and heavier as the minutes ticked by.
John's hand twitched involuntarily towards his pocket when it went off for the second time. How could such a tiny noise sound so insistent? Kate noticed his movement, despite it's understatedness.
"Do you need to get that?" She asked politely, her eyes glancing down at his pocket. John grimaced. No, he certainly did not need to get that. But he would, regardless.
"Yes, so sorry, just a moment." He responded, smiling apologetically. He pulled the phone out of his pocket, studying the screen with a sense of apprehension.
Pass me the computer.
A knot of stress that he hadn't known existed uncurled in his chest. A need to head straight back to their flat accosted him. A ridiculous need, but a need nonetheless.
"Do you need to leave?" Kate asked, her pretty face on the verge of a frown.
"Ah, yes. I'm so sorry. Something has come up." He answered, without thinking. What was he doing? He was ruining a perfectly good chance with this perfectly good woman. He paused, trying to decided what to do.
"Look, John. I've had a great time, really, but it seems to me that you've got a lot on your mind and you're just too busy for a relationship. It was lovely to see you, but I think we should leave it here for a while. Later on, when you have attention to spare, feel free to call me." She stood as she spoke, then dipped down to kiss him tenderly, and a little wistfully, on the cheek. "Goodbye."
John watched her walk away, dumbfounded and distracted, unable to believe that it had happened again. Damn Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, destroyer of chances with perfectly good women. John ran a hand over his face, sighing. Pass me the computer.
Squaring his shoulders, he stood. No point in moping and going on about it now. The damage was done. He left a bill on the table, enough to cover their unfinished meal, and strode out of the restaurant. It was raining when he walked out onto the sidewalk, big, fat drops that hit the concrete and scattered, pelting his legs and soaking him from the bottom up.
He hailed a cab and climbed inside quickly, slamming the door with haste to avoid the downpour.
"221 B Baker Street, please." He informed the cabbie before leaning back to stare out the window. The rain was so thick that the view through the glass was merely a muggy, grey blur. Thoughts of the water seemed to drain away, thoughts of Sherlock seeping in to take their place.
John could just picture him, crouched on the couch, his bare feet tucked under him, patiently waiting for him to arrive and hand him the bloody computer. Why did the thought start a smile, creeping across his face without consent? What should have irritated him, instead gave him a sense of rightness, of anticipation. He wanted to be home, he wanted to give him the laptop. He wanted that small nod, that brief eye contact, that smallest of moments where Sherlock was focused solely on John and John alone. Pass me the computer.
And it terrified him. Had he always been this desperate for Sherlock's attention? Surely not. Had he? Of course it was flattering for a man as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes to give anyone any kind of specialized treatment. There was no reason why John shouldn't be pleased about it.
But this was different, something had changed. He was anxious, almost desperate to be home. Since when? Since when had the thought of things not working out with Kate not caused him unhappiness? Because he was not unhappy now, even knowing that she no longer wished to see him. He was just in a rush to be home. To be near him. Pass me the computer.
What the bloody hell had come over him? He sat in the back of the cab, his brow furrowed in concentration as he thought about his flatmate. About his wit and his subtle, lean grace. About his piercing, knowledgeable eyes and the way they had looked at him only hours before, widened in what almost appeared to be amazement after John's uncomfortable outburst. Pass me the computer.
The way those blue eyes had looked at him, at only him, as if he was seeing him for the first time. The way thoughts stirred in his gaze, things that John was sure he didn't want to know or even consider. Or did he?
Pass me the computer.
He swallowed, his fingers tapping nervously on his knee as the cab grew ever nearer to the one place he wanted to be, but was suddenly terrified of arriving at. What was he going to say when he got there? Would it be awkward? Would Sherlock still have that look in his eyes? Would he mention it, this newfound realization that they had both come to, albeit separately? That there was a possibility, however slight, that there could be more between them?
And would John even consider it? No, impossible. But was it, really? Yes, it was Sherlock. A man, who would surely be even more difficult to deal with, were they in an actual relationship. A man, who had never had a previous lover that John was aware of. A man, who before had shown no interest or even the slightest intent towards anything more than friendship with John. A man who, without even realizing it, he had become utterly devoted to.
Pass me the computer.
The words, even in his voice, rang in his ears as the cab stopped in front of 221 B Baker Street. John found himself handing the cabbie the appropriate change and stepped rigidly from the vehicle, now nearly oblivious to the drenching rain. The door loomed in front of him, beckoning him, frightening him.
It was warmer inside, and brighter, though still dim. John walked the steps slowly, drawing out his last few seconds before he had to face his flatmate. Those seconds were stolen from him, however, when Sherlock opened the door just as his fingers brushed the knob. He stood there, light framing his outline, his face lit up and exhilarated. It was late, but he was still fully dressed, and John couldn't help but notice how the pale blue of his shirt made the blue of his eyes seem darker than usual.
"John! Come, I've had a thought." He ordered, ushering him into the flat. The door snapped shut behind them and John watched with surprise as Sherlock strode into the living room and pointed dramatically at the computer screen.
"Got a little impatient, did you?" He mumbled before he walked over, squinting his eyes at the screen. A tailoring shop's website glared back at him, some nondescript place that John had never heard of. He looked up at Sherlock, who was obviously waiting eagerly for John to arrive at the same conclusion that he had.
"Right, well, it's a shop." He said, gesturing plainly at the screen.
"Ugh, well of course it's a shop! A shop that specializes in fitting silk. Silk, John!" He said, as though this was the answer to everything. In Sherlock's blissfully aware mind, it probably was.
"I think I'll go put on a cup of tea while you tell me why this is so important." John said, unable to completely suppress the smile tugging at his mouth as he turned away.
"The ribbon around the woman's neck, the lining was smooth, unhemmed, suggesting that it was cut. But the lines were uneven, so it was cut by hand. Probably from a scarf or a shirt, but judging from the thickness of the material, shirt is more likely. There is only one place within fifty miles who sells silk shirts of that quality. And it is this shop." He finished, pointing at the screen grandly. "It's not a terrible place actually, I own a few of their pieces myself, quite a nice fit, not too short in the arm-" He added, tugging at his shirt as he spoke before he suddenly stopped, his eyes snapping up to John's face.
"You. You left." He said, his head turning to the side slightly as he spoke, but never taking his eyes from John. John's fingers nearly faltered in his task, but he suppressed the shake as he poured water from the kettle.
"I told you I was leaving. You were looking right at me Sherlock, you can't tell me that you didn't notice me leave-"
"No, no, you left in the middle of our discussion." He revised, waving away John's words. John hesitated for a moment, hating himself for it, knowing that Sherlock's eyes would see his discomfort. Sherlocks eye's saw everything.
"It was hardly a discussion Sherlock. More of a row. Anyway, I don't see why we need to hash through that again." He said, trying to keep his voice light.
"Wrong. We do need to discuss it, because it is distracting me and I can't have distractions." Sherlock insisted, placing his long fingered hands on the counter between them. "We need to talk about your need for intimacy." John felt his neck heat up, blush creeping up his skin to his ears.
"That is my personal business Sherlock and you're daft if you think I'm going to talk about it with-"
"Would you like to be intimate with me?" Sherlock asked, interrupting him smoothly. John nearly choked, the heat in his skin going from an uncomfortable warmth to a raging wildfire.
"Sherlock! That's not- you're- that's not funny!" He finally spat out, pointing at his flatmate angrily. Sherlock had to be joking. He had to be. There was no way he was serious, no way he would even consider-
"I wasn't trying to be funny. Really John, do keep up. I was making you a logical proposition to best suit our individual needs. I need you to stay here, with me. You need to, as you like to put it, 'get off', so I see this as the most ideal option." Sherlock offered, his voice much, much too even for his words.
John gaped at him, unwilling to even think about the possibility that Sherlock was being serious. But he was thinking about it. Now that he had said it, he couldn't stop thinking about it. Him and Sherlock, together. In all the ways that would make them a couple. Not only living together and solving crimes, not only late dinners and laughing together and sharing private jokes, but kissing and touching and sleeping in the same bed. Having someone there in the night, when he woke up from terrors of his time in Afghanistan or shaking with physical need so fierce that he needed someone's touch. And not just any someone. Sherlock.
His flatmate seemed to be waiting, a little impatiently as John thought it over. John opened his mouth to speak, thought about it, then closed it again. What should he say? He couldn't just say yes, under the off chance that Sherlock was, for some stupid reason, tormenting him. But what if he said no and Sherlock was being serious? He would never offer this again. This would be his only chance to accept this offer.
But wait, did he want to? He hadn't even thought about whether or not he wanted to be with Sherlock, his mind had jumped straight into whether or not Sherlock really wanted to be with him. That mental response alone should have answered his question.
Did Sherlock even realize what he was proposing? John wasn't even positive that he had ever been intimate with anyone, let alone another man. If that was true, why offer this to John? Why him? Another, more horrible thought occurred to him.
What if they actually agreed to this, what if they began and John got attached, only for Sherlock to grow bored and end it? Could John live through that? He felt the color drain out of his face, and watched Sherlock judge his reaction, his eyes widening. No. No he could not live through that.
"What did you just think of? What was that?" Sherlock asked, studying John's face in a way that was more scientific interest than care for his flatmate.
"Nothing. I can't talk about this right now Sherlock. I'm going to bed." He walked from behind the counter towards the stairs, needing to get away. But of course, Sherlock had no intention of letting him leave.
"No, stop. Tell me. What are you thinking?" He ordered, grabbing John by the shoulder. A sharp flare of pain from his old injury shot through him, making him groan.
"Sherlock let me go." He ordered through gritted teeth. To his surprise, he obeyed. But he stepped around John, in front of him, blocking his way to the stairs.
"I still expect an answer John." He insisted, his beautiful voice low with determination. John looked up at him, unable to stop the possibilities from forming in his mind. Sherlock's dark curly hair mussed from fingers and being presses against pillows. His eyes glazed over, but still intense, unable to slow his brain even for something as consuming as sex. His voice, his annoyingly loud and utterly brilliant voice, saying his name with lust ridden tones.
John took a step back, running a hand over his face. Now that he was seeing it, now that there was even the smallest possibility, he couldn't stop seeing it.
Sherlock Holmes, beautiful, impossibly unattainable man… devoted to him.
"John?" Oh, his voice. John's name, coming from that mouth, over and over, deep and rough with the kind of pleasure that John suspected he had never experienced.
"Yes?" He answered, his voice hoarse.
"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, taking a step closer. John held one hand out as if to stop him, while his other hand was pressed into his aching shoulder.
"Did you mean it?" John asked. He began to rephrase, to clarify. But of course, Sherlock didn't need him to clarify anything.
"What would the purpose be of asking, if I wasn't intending to comply with your answer?" He simply stated.
"No evasions, Sherlock, please! Answer me simply. Did you mean it?" John asked again, staring at him intensely, feeling this to be the most pivotal moment in their precarious relationship. Sherlocks eyes remained steadily focused on his own as he answered.
"Yes, John. I meant it."
