A/N: Hello there, readers! I apologize in advance for the inadequate length of this chapter. I've already nearly finished chapter nine and it is about twice the length of this one, if not longer. That'll be the long awaited lemon also. There will only be ten chapters in all, so you've only go two more to go. Thank you for sticking with me through this and as always, please review!
Chapter Eight
John was quite used to Sherlock's eccentric behavior, but this was becoming ridiculous. Not only had he ceased their heated embrace at the flat seemingly without reason, ignored John's questions about the identity of the murderer during the cab ride, but now that they had stopped to have dinner, he found that Sherlock had brought him to his least favorite coffee shop of all places?
Sherlock hated the little shop,why would he choose this place? Baffled, John kept his eyes on his flatmate as they entered, watching those sharp blue eyes look around casually. Something was going on, something to do with the case. He watched Sherlock more closely, unable to decipher that look, unable to figure out who or what was here that he was after. He huffed, frustrated. Sherlock heard the soft noise and looked down at him.
"I hope you're hungry." He said, grinning. John scowled.
"Would you like to tell me what we're doing here?" He asked, not bothering to mention that he had only eaten an hour ago.
"No." Sherlock answered simply, looking away from John and staring absently at the crowd. John sighed and resigned to wait it out.
He decided to have a look around as they waited in line, to test his own eyes and see if he could spot whatever it was that Sherlock was looking for. It was probably useless, but he had to pass the time one way or another. He shifted his weight and sighed, looking around while trying not to appear too terribly interested. The shop was moderately crowded, but no one of interest caught his eye. He did notice that young man behind the counter, staring eagerly at Sherlock again in a way that was most definitely annoying.
Sherlock carefully kept a no-touching distance between them. He seemed to stand as close as he could without touching John, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. On the one hand, he was afraid that Sherlock would never want to be seen being too close in public, which made no sense as he never tried to deny the accusations about their relationship before. On the other hand, maybe he was simply uninterested in closing the distance because he felt no need to touch John. The only other reason he could think of was to spare John embarrassment from some kind of public display of affection that Sherlock thought would make him uncomfortable. Unlikely. Sherlock didn't have the capacity for such consideration.
As ever, Sherlock was always one to surprise him. When they reached the counter, he spoke before John had the chance, ordering two coffees. Upon completing his order, Sherlock swiftly, as though the motion was regularly practiced, slid his arm around John's shoulder and brought his mouth down to John's ear.
"Did you want anything else?" He asked, his deep voice sounding very much like he had just been roused from bed. John felt the heat rush up into his face upon the display, wondering what the bloody hell had come over Sherlock, but at the same time unable to move away or discourage him. It didn't take him long to figure out why.
The young man behind the counter watched, wide eyed and disbelieving as Sherlock staked his very obvious claim. John wasn't sure whether to be furious for his manipulations, or flattered. He decided to act on neither emotion, and instead simply shook his head in answer to Sherlock question.
Sherlock nodded, letting his nose brush against John's ear for only a second before releasing him from his hold with the barest of smiles before repeating their order to the man. John waited awkwardly while their order was filled, watching the red faced young man with a sharp eye, lest he spit in his cup.
Once they were safely out of the shop, he rounded on Sherlock with every intention of berating him only to see him pulling out his mobile. He punched in a number from memory as they strode down the sidewalk. John sipped his coffee as he watched Sherlock bring the phone to his ear, and frowned when he dropped his untouched coffee into a trash bin without breaking stride.
"Lestrade. Send a patrolman to the coffee shop on the east end of Baker Street. Our killer's name is Trevor, and his shift will be over soon. He'll be angry when he leaves the shop, so he'll try to murder again tonight. Keep an eye on him and call me in the morning when you have him in lockup." Sherlock ordered so proficiently before promptly ending the call without so much as a 'goodbye'.
"Coffee shop guy? Coffee shop guy is the murderer?" John asked, astounded as they walked back towards their flat.
"Of course John, do keep up. I've only visited four different locations within the last week. Lettie's, the crime scenes, our flat, and the coffee shops."
"So you did follow me the other night-"
"First of all, Lettie's, only three people passed by me on the street who would have been close enough to see my shirt collar clearly, and none of them fit the profile. The crime scenes were more simple, surrounded by policemen and even then, not many of them came close enough to get a clear look at my shirt collar. Possible that the killer was on the police force, but not probable. I skipped over that possibility in favor of the next two options. The flat, for obvious reasons, was not a likely choice for our killer to have seen me. The coffee shop was next, and I will admit that it took me a moment to figure it out. You were the one who gave me the idea-"
"Me? How?"
"-and after that it was simply a matter of luring him out and tempting him to kill again, to try to steal my attention away from my new lover." Sherlock finished, unaffected as John nearly spat coffee out of his mouth upon hearing the word.
He coughed for a moment, wiping his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. After he recovered, he snuck a glance over at his companion. Sherlock's face was schooled to a carefully constructed blank expression. It was clear to John that he was being deliberately taciturn.
It had occurred to him that him that now their case was over. The work, as Sherlock put it, was over. Which left him free of obligations and reason to stay focused without fear of distractions. Meaning… intimacy.
Would Sherlock initiate anything? Should John? Should he wait and judge Sherlock's mood? Perhaps wait until they get the call from Lestrade, just to be safe? Probably. He would rather wait then try too early only to be rebuffed by his ever mercurial friend.
So John remained silent until they arrived back at 221 B Baker Street, breathing in the familiar smell of home as he sighed upon hanging up his coat inside the door. Sherlock wasted no time in removing his coat and scarf, taking the stairs two at a time in his rush to arrive at their second floor front door. It was still open when John reached the top stair, but his flatmate was no where to be seen.
Dark had fallen, leaving the old yellow lamps to be the dominant source of light in the wide sitting room. The streetlights could be seen out of the windows, along with the bustle of evening foot traffic on the sidewalk below. John sat at his computer with his coffee, putting the quiet to use as he prepared to type up the rough draft for a new blog about their latest case.
It was only seconds later that the violin started from somewhere else in their flat, it's tempo fast and strong as it fed Sherlock's agitation. Already? The case wasn't even really over yet. John suppressed a groan and a smile as the noise grew closer. Sherlock entered from the hall, having removed his jacket but nothing else. His shoes were silent as he stepped slowly across the hardwood floor, his hair in disarray as he worshiped the instrument.
"Sherlock, would you like to play a little softer? Our neighbors are going to complain again." John attempted, though he knew not why.
"I decline." Sherlock answered simply, confirming John's expectations. He settled in a prepared to ignore the destructive music as he opened his browser.
He had barely managed two paragraphs when Sherlock promptly perched his bottom on the side of John's desk and laid his upper body down the length of it with a flourish, knocking papers and an empty cup to the floor without care.
"Sherlock really? Come on now-"
"Bored, John! I'm bored!" He proclaimed, letting the violin rest across his stomach.
"Yes well, fall onto the couch and scatter the cushions, kindly leave my desk out of your tantrums." John grumbled, attempting to gather his fleeting thoughts and resume his typing.
He tried to ignore Sherlock, who was pouting glumly as he typed, but he couldn't help but be aware of his thigh so close to the side of his computer. His trousers were stretched tight as his legs dangled off the edge of his desk from the knee. The fabric clung to his legs, leaving little to speculate on, as far as their shape. What a nice shape they appeared to be.
John closed his eyes, pulling a breath in through his nose and breathing it out through his mouth. That was exactly the direction his thoughts were not supposed to be going in. He had decided to wait, had he not? Wasn't his fault that bloody Sherlock wanted to lay across his desk and distract him with that long lean graceful body of his- what. the. hell. John.
"Is there a problem?" Sherlock drawled, his smooth voice speculative as he spoke the question. John nearly flinched, opening his eyes to find those blue eyes trained on him. Which was exactly what he didn't need.
"Nope. No problems here. Just. Peachy." He answered, unable to control his clipped tone. One didn't need to be Sherlock bloody Holmes to deduce that there was indeed a problem.
"Wrong. Why are you lying to me?" Sherlock asked, sitting up swiftly as he narrowed his eyes down at John in amusement.
"I am not lying. I am just busy and you're distracting me." He responded, making an effort to keep his words gentle. Sherlock let out a bark of laughter.
"I am distracting you? How appropriate." He nearly murmured, those delighted eyes still trained on his face.
John pointedly ignored him as set his violin on the floor, propping it gently against the desk. He laid back once again, though this time his long body was propped up on his elbows, leaving his pectoral muscles taut under his straining shirt, which was definitely not distracting at all. Neither was the way those dark curls mused to the side of his face, looking deliciously messy and windswept from their walk.
Since when was he so damn attracted to Sherlock? A week ago their relationship was pleasantly platonic, no matter what everyone else says, and now he couldn't sit in the same room as the man without wanting to run his tongue across his stomach. John groaned and leaned back in his chair and let his head fall back as he closed his eyes and took another deep breath.
"You see John, this is the problem with intimate relationships. They're distracting." Sherlock murmured, his voice much closer than before. John's eyes shot open, their gaze locking. Sherlock had slid off the desk silently and moved around to lean against it almost directly in front of him, his hip nearly brushing against the side of John's laptop. How did he move so quietly? And why was he looking down at John with that nearly demented smirk on his face?
John opened his mouth to answer, but was unsure of how to respond. Sherlock's thigh was pressing against the side of his chair and it was distracting. He watched, helpless as Sherlock slowly pushed the screen to his laptop down until the computer closed with an audible click.
"Have I ever informed you that I find your physical and verbal responses fascinating? For example, your pupils have dilated so widely that I can no longer see your irises. Your face displays a lovely shade of pink before all your blood rushes down to the more… needed extremities. You open your mouth, but you struggle for words as you are so flustered. It's quite flattering." Sherlock mused, bringing a hand to brush his fingers against John's slack mouth. He immediately closed it.
"I-you-you just surprised me, that's all." He defended, standing swiftly so that he no longer had to look up at Sherlock. With Sherlock leaning against the desk, they were eye to eye. In a moment of boldness, he pushed those long legs apart, just far enough for him to stand between them. He was not flustered, damn it. If either of them should have been flustered, it was Sherlock.
Those heavily lidded eyes just watched him, a small smile gracing his perfect lips. His smile grew fractionally wider when John places his hands on Sherlock's hips. He seemed calm, serene almost.
"What's gotten into you?" John asked, their faces close. Sherlock's calm worried at him, it was abnormal.
"I'm bored." He replied simply, causing John to frown. This behavior couldn't be farther from the way he usually dealt with his boredom.
"Well yes but what happened to the violin? What happened to shooting the walls or conducting your ridiculous experiments, which reminds me Sherlock, is that smell ever going to come out of the-" His words were cut off when Sherlock shifted in front of him, resituating his legs around him and settling back down against the desk.
"I'm bored, John. Distract me." He said again, bringing his face even closer. John could feel his breath on his lips.
Distract me.
