A/N: Sorry, I know it took a few days for me to get this one out, I've just been busy at home. Again, thank you for the reviews. You have no idea how much they mean to me. Every time I get that email it gives me the urge to work on this. Thank you guys. And Sara, I loved your thirty minutes of freak out. Made. My. Day.
One more thing, my usual uh, 'beta reader' didn't get the time to look over this one for me. I apologize in advance for any mistakes. Enjoy, and please review!
Chapter Seven
"John… you utterly brilliant man!" Sherlock proclaimed, rising from his hunched position to look at his flatmate. John's eyes widened, his hands paused, his throat convulsed as he swallowed heavily.
"I'm sorry?" He said, his voice two octaves higher than normal. Sherlock had to admit, he didn't compliment him often, probably not as often as he should, but this reaction was unnecessary. Of course he was brilliant, how could he not know?
And how could Sherlock have missed this? Of course, of course, his shirts! How could he not have seen! Even the brand of silk was the same, he had said as much himself. Only one shop within fifty miles sold that brand, a shop that Sherlock, and certainly the killer, was familiar with. The shop was the connection, bringing with it other threads of possibilities.
Who had seen him repeatedly over the last few days, who would know what color shirts he had been wearing? Where had he gone? He brought his hands to his temples and closed his eyes, running through his last few days in his mind. Flat, Lettie's, flat, coffee shop, crime scene, flat, crime scene, coffee shop, flat. He never stayed for more than twenty seven minutes at each of these places, with the exception of his flat, where only John, Lestrade, that witless junior policeman, and Mrs. Hudson had seen him. Of course John wasn't the killer, impossible. It wouldn't be Lestrade, that wouldn't make sense. Sherlock simply refused to believe that the junior policeman had done it, and he didn't even consider Mrs. Hudson. So that left anyone who had seen him at Lettie's, the crime scenes, or the coffee shop. Anyone on the street could have seen him at any of these places, and with John's blog growing in popularity, he scowled at the thought, his face was becoming more and more recognizable.
But enough about that, focus on the people who had passed him on the street. First, two nights ago, at Lettie's. He recreated the the situation in his mind easily, able to recall every detail. He sat across the street from the from the tiny pub, sitting on a bench instead of standing as people tending to pay more attention to someone standing in one place for any length of time than they did if they were sitting, and watched John and his, he grimaced, date, as they flirted and drank and acted like- wait, stop. Back to the street.
It had been rather late in the evening, already dark with thick clouds that had threatened rain, and delivered later on that night. Sherlock had been dressed in his usual attire, with his long coat and scarf, with his coat buttoned to protect his body from the wet, cold air. The only way that any passerby could have possibly noticed the color of his shirt is if they had walked directly passed him, within a three to four feet radius. That eliminated all the people on the street except three.
Passerby number one, an older woman, widowed veterinarian, walking three tiny little dogs who stopped to sniff at Sherlock's feet. He had been tempted to strike out with his foot at the little beasts as the woman had stopped directly in front of him, blocking his view to the window at Lettie's. It had taken her precisely four and a half seconds to urge the little mongrels on and continue down the sidewalk, giving her plenty of time to inspect his collar. Sherlock ran his eyes over her body in his mind, noting her weathered hands with tiny scars and the knotted, misshapen scar at her wrist where a small dog, possibly cat but more likely a small dog, had bitten her. Her keys hung from her waist, jingling loudly with her every step. There had been a keychain hanging from the ring with the letters "Border's Veterinary Hospital" printed on it's face, along with a pair of paw prints.
Her clothes were covered in many types of animal hair, ranging from small short hairs of various colors to long wiry strands that could be found on shepherds and the like. Her blond and silver hair was knotted up hastily, redone over and over again as it kept falling down with her movements. The thick rope chain around her neck disappeared under her shirt, hanging tightly, weighed down by whatever rested just above her sternum. Could have been some kind of charm, but unlikely judging from the rigidness of the chain. Something heavy was hanging there, probably a man's wedding ring. Sherlock removed his focus from her outer appearance and brought it up to her face, lined with years of laughter, with reddened over indentations on each side of the bridge of her nose, she wore glasses at work, probably farsighted as she was not wearing them now.
Her expression was normal, mundane, as she apologized briefly for the dogs, then pulled them away and down the sidewalk. Her eyes had never lingered on Sherlock's face or collar, keeping to his lower extremities or on the dogs. There was no sign that she payed any special attention to him. The chances were extremely slim that she had anything to do with the murders. So on to the next one.
Passerby number two had been a man, likely in his late thirties judging from his receding hairline and slightly protruding stomach from too many pints. He hadn't paused or even looked in Sherlock's direction as he walked passed, his voice low as he spoke on his mobile. Sherlock noticed that his ring finger on his left hand had an indention, so he was either recently divorced or still married and currently having an affair. Sherlock guess the later, judging from the shady looks he kept throwing around him and the lowered voice, probably on the phone with his mistress as he walked passed, on his way to a rendezvous.
He had walked passed Sherlock as if he wasn't there, too preoccupied with his own business to pay him much mind. He also didn't fit the profile, as he was a large man and surely wouldn't need to poison or drug his victims. It was highly unlikely that he was the killer.
That left only the third passerby, a young woman who fit all the physical requirements, slender and without the muscle required to attack two people, giving her the motivation to use some type of paralyzing substance. She was also well dressed and groomed, her makeup neat and effortless. She was carrying bags from three different stores nearby, and wearing a designer coat and matching heels, so she was accustomed to money. The diamond studs in her ears reinforced this idea, and as she turned to glance at Sherlock as she strode passed, she gave him a smile that hinted at some underlying thought. Wait, focus on that look, focus on her eyes. Her eyes, which ran over his face quickly for about one full second, then over the remainder of his body for another full second, without slowing her stride. She certainly had taken the appropriate amount of time to notice the color of his shirt with minimal effort.
Her pupils had dilated a fraction as she looked at him, her lips quirking up and pushing together to make them look swollen in a way that she must have thought men found attractive, though Sherlock thought they looked more inflated than sensuous. And then she was gone, striding away from him with an exaggerated sway of her hips that was certainly meant for him. Sherlock tossed away the memory of her backside, useless.
Though she was the most likely suspect of the three, she shared the same irritating factor that both other passersbys had, in that she meant absolutely nothing to Sherlock. He had never seen any of these people before, and they had no connection to him that would make him entertain the slightest possibility of them committing these crimes for Sherlock.
John's voice, though enjoyable to listen to, even more so of late, tried to break through his concentration.
"Shut up John." He voiced, not angrily, as he was working and didn't want to be distracted. The words stopped, leaving him to consider the next possibilities.
Right, the coffee shop. Sherlock grimaced as his mind flew through the possibilities, such a crowded little bore of a shop, with it's muddy water that would never constitute as coffee. Sherlock would never understand why John seemed to enjoy the place so much, even the food was not up to standard. It was entirely possible that- stop. Focus. Look for her, look for the killer.
Sherlock waved away all of the male faces in his mentally recreated coffee shop, choosing to focus solely on the women. No, she only arrived in london two hours ago. Couldn't be her, she spent the last two day's locked in a hotel with her new husband. Not that one, she was a lesbian and despised men, and most likely couldn't be bothered to impress Sherlock for any reasons.
He continued to study them, all nine of them, but none of them had what he was looking for. Where was the look, surely one of them had looked at him, surely one of them was committing these crimes, practically screaming for Sherlock's attention. Why couldn't he find her! He pressed his fingers to his temples in frustration, determined that she was in the shop somewhere.
Definitely not that one, judging from the one side of conversation Sherlock could hear as she chatted on her mobile, her IQ was so low that she would have to dig for it. He groaned in frustration, tugging his hair from his scalp.
"Sherlock?" John asked, his voice cutting through his thoughts. Sherlock turned to snap at him but paused upon seeing the look on his face.
John's brows were drawn together in worry, his eyes flickering over Sherlock's face as he stood there. There, in that look, the darting movement of his gaze as they ran over Sherlock's person… It was there… there in that look…
And then the thought slammed into him like a slap to the face, taunting him for his stupidity, for not having seen it before. Those eyes, staring at him greedily, making him uncomfortable as he stood in that too crowded little shop.
Nearly jumping in excitement, Sherlock focused on John's anxious face letting a grin deform his mouth.
"John! We're going out. I need one of your shirts." He announced, striding passed John and towards the stairs to his flatmates room, unbuttoning his own shirt as he walked.
"What? Why? Do you know who the murderer is?" He inquired, Sherlock could hear the clink of china as John hastily set his cup on the counter before bounding up the stairs after him.
"I have a very possibly, and frankly quite probable, guess. I require your assistance in order to get the proof that I need to hand him over to Lestrade." Sherlock said as he stepped into John's room. He immediately went to John's closet and started pulling shirts off the hangers, inspecting them individually, before tossing them onto the floor.
"Now, hang on Sherlock, you can't just-"
"The shirts John, the shirts are the key! I need the killer to see my shirt, but it can't be my shirt, so it must be yours. No, not this one, not my style at all. No. No. No. How can you wear this?" He asked, holding the offending garment between two fingers. How could John stand it? It must have felt like wearing carpet.
"Who is it? And why do you need one of my shirts?" John asked, standing in the doorway of his own closet as he watched Sherlock rummage through his clothes.
Sherlock ignored his first question as he finally found a suitable shirt. He pulled it away from the others, brushing passed John as he walked back into the bedroom and to the bed. Sherlock had seen John in this shirt before, and remembered the way it was slightly too long in the arm, making it the most preferable choice for Sherlock. He laid the shirt on John's bed and continued unbuttoning his own.
"Sherlock, ah, why- what are you doing?" John asked, breathing out heavily through his nose as Sherlock turned to look at him, fingers still on his buttons. He became suddenly acutely aware of the way John's pupils dilated, the way his hand fluttered nervously at his collar as his eyes followed Sherlock's fingers as they made swift work of the buttons. He let his fingers slow, not quite so concentrated on his buttons anymore.
"John," Sherlock drawled, aware of how John's throat contracted heavily as he said his name.
"Yes, Sherlock?" He answered, shifting his weight and holding himself up straighter as Sherlock took a step towards him. He had to suppress a smile at the familiar habit, narrowing his eyes as John glanced down at his hands.
"Do you recall earlier when I said that I wanted to kiss you, but that it would have to wait because there was work to be done?" Sherlock asked lightly, standing directly in front of him then as he finished off the last button, leaving his silk shirt hanging open.
"Yes, I do recall." He answered, holding his chin up in a way meant to show that he was unafraid and resilient. How charming.
With their bodies only inches apart, Sherlock could clearly see the lines in John's face. How curious it was, how often he forgot that John wasn't exactly a young man. Not to say he was decrepit, for he was obviously in excellent shape and health, but he was not as young as he presented himself to be. Sherlock knew he didn't do this consciously, or to fool people into thinking that he was younger than he actually was, just that he was a younger man at heart.
At heart. John's heart. Which was beating hard and furious, so much so that Sherlock could see his chest thundering with it's effort as he breathed, he could count it's beats, one two, one two, one two, fast and strong. Definitely the heart of a younger man.
Sherlock could also see his pulse threading in his neck, the skin stretching with every beat, tantalizing him as they stood so close. John's eyes were wide and dark, lingering on his lips as he seemed to teeter on the edge of a precipice, on the one hand, to walk away from Sherlock and ignore the tension that had risen up so quickly, and on the other, to close those inches and pressed their lips together.
Sherlock found himself so singularly focused, now unable to take his eyes from John's face, from the tanned skin over his cheeks, from his wide eyes, his parted lips. And even as only two seconds had passed since John had answered him and Sherlock had looked at him to take all of this in, he realized how utterly preposterous his relationship with John was becoming.
If it got anymore out of hand, one might begin to think that he was developing feelings for his flatmate.
When had his offer, the offer he had made out of a practical need to keep John and his relationships from distracting him, become an arrangement that he was genuinely interested in, something that he wanted?
And God, why did he want to kiss John so badly?
Sherlock was barely able to finish the thought, barely able to register the resolve suddenly forming in John's face, before his lips were on him. Those lips that were so soft, moving against his own with fierce need, as though John was trying desperately to tell him something. Sherlock, even with his self proclaimed brilliance, was able to admit that this, this was out of his depth. He could go through exactly how many traffic stops there were in the city of London, or correctly solve an equation for special relativity within fifteen seconds, even solve the most mysterious and impossible murders, but the current emotional state of his flatmate completely eluded him.
But the way that John pressed his body into Sherlock's and ran his hand from his neck up to the back of his head to twist his strong fingers into Sherlock's hair, gave him the strangest sensation. He didn't care that he didn't understand. He let John push him back a step as he tugged as Sherlock's hair, earning guttural groan to escape his mouth. He wasn't even aware he could make such a sound.
John took the opportunity to slide his tongue into Sherlock's mouth once again, lingering longer this time, allowing Sherlock to become acquainted with the feel of the alien digit running along his own tongue. He was once again hyper aware of the the millions of tiny nerves in his mouth igniting, sending signals of pleasure to his brain and from his brain to the rest of his body. He could feel the affect, almost as if he was intoxicated. His mind was working more slowly than usual, and he found it increasingly difficult to focus on anything except John's body against his own. The loss of power over his body frightened him, but he also couldn't find the spare room in his brain to worry about it at that moment.
John's tongue darted into his mouth again and Sherlock vaguely noticed how the back of his knees were pressed against the bed. When had he taken those steps? His breath hitched when the hand that was not tugging at his hand slid down his throat and onto his chest. That hand, so warm, touching him in a way that he had never been touched, leaving his nerves on fire in it's wake.
The feel of that hand as it fluttered over his chest and sternum, dancing over his ribs, touching each one individually as it explored him, sent heat spiraling down into his pelvis. He could feel the blood rushing down, feel the erection growing swiftly.
Sherlock had had erections before, he would have to have been dysfunctional to have not, but usually they came about without need or want and Sherlock either ignored them or dealt with them quickly out of pure logical desire to be rid of it. They had never felt like this. They had never felt so hot, leaving him so desperate to be touched. As John's hand traveled lower, he grew more curious as to what it would be like to have John touch him, to have John stroke him to an orgasm. The thought intrigued him.
His breath hitched again, unbidden, betraying him as those warm fingers brushed against the line of his trousers. John pulled away at the sound, just far enough to study Sherlock's face intently. His skin was flushed, pupils dilated so wide that the blue of his irises were nearly invisible, his lips swollen from the extra blood coursing through his body. He looked positively marvelous.
Sherlock's lower extremities throbbed at the sight of him. He brought a hand down and pressed a palm to his erection, attempting to simultaneously to control and soothe himself. John's eyes followed his hand widening as he realized what Sherlock's touch meant. Sherlock could almost see the blood flowing down, leaving his cheeks not as red as before. So he found the site of Sherlock's erection arousing did he? Interesting.
"Sherlock…" He whispered, the sound of his name like a reverent prayer on his lips. The exposed worship in John's voice sent a thrill through him, nothing gave him pleasure like praise coming from that voice.
"Yes John?" He asked, his voice rough with the effort it took to speak.
"There are things that we need to discuss if we're really going to do this. Delicate matters and things that need to be worked out before we can continue…" He trailed off, his eyes running over Sherlock's mouth.
Sherlock let his gaze wander from the tanned skin of his face, passed the line on his neck where his flesh started to pale from lack of sun exposure. Three of his buttons were undone, leaving a small patch of bared skin. Sherlock knew from their previous night together that John's chest had the barest dusting of sandy colored hair, but it was hidden from him by the damned shirt. The shirt. The shirts!
He let out a strangled groan, releasing John and running his own hands through his hair as his mind once again flooded with the work, successfully smothering all thoughts of intimacy with John for the moment. The case, the shirts. He needed to dress. He needed to leave.
"Sherlock?" John inquired, frowning up at him as he took a step back. Sherlock locked his gaze on him, knowing that he could not postpone the work to complete what they had started. He needed to finish the work first.
"Yes, John. Would you like to have dinner with me?"
