A/N: To my eight reviewers, thank you for your words of encouragement! It really pleases me to know that people are enjoying this, and that I'm doing a halfway decent job. And Sara, I do know that feeling! I don't think my story will get quite that in depth into their sexual activities, but there WILL be a nice scene between the two of them. It will happen, so hang in there! And please, feel free to review!
Chapter Six
The quiet hum of an air vent filled the near silence of the room, which was dark, but getting brighter as John's eyes adjusted to the barest amount of moonlight filtering in through the window. It was early morning, just after three by the bedside clock. Sherlock's still body lay next to him, his naked chest pale and infuriatingly perfect, his face slack and more at ease than John had ever seen him before. The sight was mesmerizing.
John had come awake slowly at first, until he realized where he was and he remembered how he had gotten there. The memory rushed through him, leaving a warm feeling in it's wake. Sherlock, deciphering his every move and expression, no matter how miniscule, seeming to know exactly what he was thinking and feeling at all times, except for when he was blatantly oblivious.
He had smiled, well more of a satisfied smirk really, when John said yes. Nothing would have pleased him more, honestly. Not in that moment. He was still reeling, the recent change in their relationship was so drastic and unexpected, that he still didn't quite know how to handle it. What were they? Dating? Just casual? There were so many things that they had yet to discuss, but he didn't want to think about it then, or even now. He was just happy to be where he was.
He smiled to himself at the memory of only hours ago, their small and humorous row about how exactly they would sleep. Sherlock had come back from the loo in one of his many sets of pinstriped grey silk pajamas which of course matched his silk sheets. John had hesitated, his gaze roaming over Sherlock's attire, which hadn't escaped his notice.
"Is there a problem?" Sherlock inquired, raising an eyebrow.
"Well no. It's just that, not all of us have fancy silk pajamas to sleep in. Some of us have to make do with more basic garments." John hedged, trying to be delicate.
"Ah, that's right, you sleep in the nude." Sherlock noted thoughtfully.
"I do not sleep in the nude, Sherlock. I sleep in my underwear." He defended, feeling himself going pink about the ears.
"Well I suppose you can borrow some of mine." Sherlock offered, walking towards his closet, his bare feet padding silently on the hard floor.
"I can't sleep in one of those stuffy shirts Sherlock." John grouched, frowning.
"Just the pants then. I'll even compromise with you. I'll only wear the pants as well. Is that acceptable?" Sherlock asked, busying himself with selecting the appropriate clothes. John gaped at the back of his head, preoccupied the the thought that he had never seen his flatmate unclothed, even above the waist.
"John?" Snapping back to attention, he looked up to see Sherlock holding a pair of folded blue silk pajama bottoms. He nodded woolenly, taking the pants and walking into the loo.
When he walked back into the bedroom, feeling slightly self conscious at his state of dress, he had to make a great effort for his face not to betray the depth of what he was feeling. Sherlock was standing next to the bed, pulling back the blanket and top sheet in preparation for them. The top half of his body was bare, and paler than John had expected, as though his skin had never seen the sun. He was so impossibly long and lean, not an ounce of fat, but not very muscled either. John made a mental note to encourage him to eat more.
As he turned, he watched those sharp blue eyes take him in in turn, assessing him on an entirely different level. His gaze lingered over the knotted scar on his shoulder. John itched to bring his hand to it, to cover it. Sherlock noticed the twitch, however slight. His eyes snapped back up to John's softening into a look that John had never seen before.
"I must sleep on the right side, so you take the left." He said, gesturing the other other side of the bed without taking his eyes off of John. John nodded, swallowing thickly as he walked around to the proper side and pulled the covers down, sliding his legs under them. Sherlock switched off the light, bathing them in darkness before John felt the bed dip next to him.
It was a small bed, not meant for two fully grown men. They had to lay close together, the lines of their bodies touching. Sherlocks bare skin was cold, but strangely, it only made him feel warmer. He rolled, turning to face Sherlock as he slipped one arm under his pillow, the position that he usually slept in. Sherlock remained flat on his back, leaving his profile bare to John's scrutiny. His strong nose and brow, his thick lips, too thick for a man, parted slightly as he exhaled. His hair had fallen back away from his face, leaving him more open. As though he could feel John's inspection, he spoke, his voice so low, sending little waves of warmth deep into him.
"What are you thinking?"
"I was just… looking at you. Not really thinking anything." He answered, grateful of the dark when he felt his face redden.
"Do you like what you see?" He asked, his voice sardonic as John watched his mouth turn up in self satisfied smirk. It was an expression that John knew well.
"Go to sleep Sherlock." John ordered, embarrassment coloring his tone. Sherlock laughed, a throaty sound that left his stomach doing flips.
"Good night John."
It hadn't been long after that they'd fallen asleep, though how he had managed to sleep, he hadn't the foggiest. Now it was three am and John was awake, and Sherlock was still sleeping. He was still in the same position as before, flat on his back with both hands resting on his sternum. The only change was the position of his head. His face was turned a few inches towards John, as though he had fallen asleep watching him out of the corner of his eye.
John reached out slowly, careful not to dislodge the blankets for fear of waking him, and placed his hand in the air just above Sherlock's chiseled cheek. He debated for a moment, torn between not wanting to disturb him but wanting to touch him. The urge to touch him won out after a moment, and he set his hand oh so gently on the side of Sherlock's face, cupping his cheek. His skin was smooth, cool to the touch and unmoving. John ran the pad of his thumb over his cheekbone delicately, enjoying the feel of being able to touch him without the pressure of those blue eyes upon him.
He enjoyed the touch for a few moments, and Sherlock never stirred. Eventually his arm became tired and he pulled away, dropping it back down to the small space of mattress between their chests. He watched him for a while, watched the rise and fall of his chest as he slept so soundly, before eventually falling back into sleep.
When he awoke again Sherlock was gone. He was alone in the bed, wrapped in silk sheets and the smell of his flatmate. He inhaled deeply, snuggling deeper into the soft warmth, enjoying the moment, before forcing himself to rise. He dipped into Sherlock's loo to relieve himself, then set out to find his flatmate. And his own toothbrush.
When he walked into the living area he stopped in his tracks as, not one, but three people turned to look at him. Sherlock, fully dressed and sharp as a tack, gave him the barest of smiles as their eyes met, before John turned to look at the two people standing across the room from him. Detective Lastrade looked at him with wide eyes, his mouth opening in surprise. The junior officer next to him couldn't restrain his smirk, and it was then that John realized what they saw.
John, leaving Sherlock's bedroom. Wearing Sherlock's pajama bottoms, and no shirt. Lovely.
"Dr. Watson, good morning." Detective Lastrade said, trying to remain professional. John felt the heat rise up in his cheeks and opened his mouth to set the record straight, before he realized that he couldn't really deny anything. He closed his mouth and settled for a quick nod at the detective before marching grumpily across the room and up the stairs to his own to dress.
Bloody Sherlock! He could have at least popped his head in and warned John that they were there! Now everyone was going to know that he had slept in Sherlock's bed. As if the rumors about them weren't bad enough, now they practically had proof that the two of them were together!
John fumed as he practically ripped the silk pants down his legs, tossing them across the room angrily. He dressed with quick, jerking movements and brushed his teeth the same way, nearly making his gums bleed. He was still angry when he walked back down the stairs to the living room.
His anger dissipated when he heard Sherlock questioning the detective. There had been another murder.
"And the only noticeable difference besides the identity of the victim and the location was the ribbon?" Sherlock asked as John joined them.
"That was all that I could see, yes." Detective Lestrade answered him. Sherlock scoffed, not bothering to disguise his arrogance.
"That would be all that you could see, wouldn't' it? We'll come. We'll follow behind and be with you shortly." He said, an obvious dismissal. Detective Lestrade glanced over at John to give him a quick smile before he and his officer ducked out of the room. It wasn't until they heard the door slam shut that Sherlock expelled his breath.
"This is fantastic! Another body John! And a different message this time!" He crowed, taking John's face in his hands and touching their foreheads together in his excitement. It was when they were still touching that he suddenly still, as if only just realizing their proximity. John could feel Sherlock's breath on his lips.
"John." He said, his voice much lower and much more controlled.
"Yes Sherlock?" John tried to say, but his voice came out hushed, a near whisper.
"I find myself wanting to kiss you again. But I'm not going to. There is work to be done and we must go. But we will continue this later, is that acceptable?" He asked, as if asking if they could meet up for tea later on. Swallowing, John could only nod. Sherlock's hands tighten for the smallest second before releasing him and grabbing his coat from the wall.
John loved to watch Sherlock work. He really was magnificent. His eyes, flickering from one piece of the puzzle to another rapidly, captivated him. He could practically hear his mind working, could see the pieces clicking together. And he was helpless, along with the rest of the world, in that he could only stand by and be overcome by his brilliance.
He was crouched, a pair surgical gloves clinging to his long fingers as he picked at the ice blue silk ribbon knotted around the man's neck. He was a large man, killed in the same way that the woman had been, lying naked on the ground in an alley just off of a busy street. Sherlock hadn't spent much time on him or his surroundings, he seemed obsessed with the ribbon.
"Same type of material, same cut, wrapped the same way, but a different color…" He mumbled to himself as he rubbed the silk between two fingers. John looked away and around the alley out of habit, always wanting to be aware of his surroundings, and his eye caught a pair of others who were staring straight at him.
Two people from the crime scene unit, both covered from neck to toes in blue scrubs, were talking in low voices, with amused expressions as they watched John. He felt the muscles in his neck tighten as he pressed his lips together and sighed. No doubt what was going on there.
"I've seen all I need to see." Sherlock said stiffly, standing and pulling off the gloves, flinging them into a nearby bin.
"Do you have anything I can use?" Detective Lastrade asked, watching Sherlock with a frown.
"No. John will call you when I do. Come John, I need to think." He ordered, striding away briskly. John said a quick, more polite goodbye, before jogging to catch up.
"What do you think?" He asked as Sherlock hailed a cab.
"Shut up. I need silence. Either be quiet or take the next cab." He ordered as the vehicle pulled up to the curb in front of them. John sighed, but followed Sherlock into the cab.
He gave the cabbie instructions to bring them to a shop near Baker Street so they could grab a quick bite to eat, as there was nothing edible at the flat at the moment. Sherlock didn't notice, he held his fingers to his temple, his lips moving occasionally, shaking his head at something only he could see.
"First the purple, then the blue…"
He was still unaware when they arrived, snapping out of his self when John opened the cab door.
"What is this? Why are we not at home?" He asked, his face souring when he saw the shop.
"I know you don't like to eat when you're working on a case, but not all of us have the same reservations." John said as he handed money to the cabbie. Sherlock sighed but followed John into the shop.
"Want a coffee while we're here?" John asked, looking up at him. Sherlock gave him an intensely angry look, then looked away, narrowing his eyes towards the counter. John followed his gaze, noting the length of the line. He briefly thought of going somewhere else, but they were already there, no point in leaving as it would only take longer to get lunch somewhere else.
Nearly fifteen minutes and an extremely irritable Sherlock later, John was giving his order to the young man across the counter, hoping that he didn't botch it from lack of attention to John and too much attention on Sherlock. He didn't need Sherlock's skills at deduction to figure that look out.
Had it always bothered him when people looked at Sherlock that way, or had that only started recently? He seemed to recall being annoyed, but not jealous. Not to say he was jealous now, just… not happy with it.
Sherlock, probably trying to avoid the man's gaze, either stared out the window or down at John. It was strange, standing the middle of a busy shop as they waited for John's order, to have those intense eyes on him. John tried to ignore him, but he couldn't help but fidgit. He nearly sagged in relief when his name was called, relieved to be out from under such frightening scrutiny.
When they arrived back at the flat, Sherlock hung his scarf and coat on the wall as John took his carry out box to the kitchen table. He allowed himself to steal glances at Sherlock while he ate, as his flatmate was otherwise occupied and unaware of inspection.
He was wearing one of his best shirts, the dark blue one that fitted his slender torso like it had been made specifically for him, to emphasize his body's natural perfection. He wore it unbuttoned at the throat, a small patch of pale skin peeking out rebelliously. The shirt twisted and pulled while he paced and turned, showing the lines of his body.
He ran his hands through his hair as he paced, going over the case in his head, mumbling unintelligibly occasionally. It was when Sherlock stopped at the back of John's chair, placing his hands on the back of it and letting his head fall as he exhaled, that John suddenly understood.
"Sherlock," He said, frowning as he went over it again in his head, checking his memory. Sherlock ignored him, lost in his own thoughts. "Sherlock, the ribbons…" John said, his voice trailing off. At this, Sherlock's head snapped up, his full attention on John's face.
"Yes? What about them?" He quipped, cutting through John's thoughts. John looked at him, wondering if he could be right, and if he was, how could Sherlock not have seen…
"They're the same colors as your shirt. The day before the first body, you wore that purple shirt, and then yesterday you were wearing that light blue one. Whoever is doing this… they're doing it specifically for you."
