Title: Feel
Chapter 1 : The Beginning
AN: So, this just happened. Been filling my empty days with Sherlock fanfic, and before I knew it, I had opened up a word document and started typing. Not much of a plot in this first chapter, but it gives you an insight into my Dr Watson's mind.
I (sadly) don't own these characters – credit goes to Conan Doyle and Gatiss and Moffat etc for that one. I make no money from this, nor anything else in particular, so please don't sue me for using them to while away the hours.
Chapter 1 : The Beginning.
John POV
That was when he first began thinking – the first day of the Baskerville case. Sherlock had disappeared out of his sight, and John was left – as usual – to sort out their lodgings alone.
"Sorry we couldn't get a double for you boys" the barman had said, and an image had flashed into John's mind before he could help it. He was entwined with Sherlock – tangled together as close as they could get even though the bed on which they were laying was humongous. Sherlock's pale skin glowed in the moonlight streaming through the window – John could tell from the sheet wrapped messily around their hips that they were both at least topless. They weren't doing anything in particular, but the scene still struck John as spectacularly intimate. They were facing each other on their sides, John wrapped tightly in the taller frame of Sherlock, who had his arms enclosing him, his chin resting on the top of John's head, his one hand resting on one of John's shoulder blades while the other made light patterns on his back with his long, nimble fingers.
John shook himself out of his weird, unexpected, what the hell, John, Surprisingly hot dream no, fantasy. He looked up at the barman, a small frown crossing his face. "we're not-" a couple he meant to say, but cut himself off before he could finish the sentence. No, they may not be a couple, but with the image his mind just conjured up, he couldn't force the words past his lips. Instead, he just shook his head, picked up his pint and made his way outside to Sherlock.
The sun was shining down on the table where Sherlock had chosen to sit, filtering through the curls resting on his forehead and causing him to squint slightly. John paused, taking a sip out of his glass, as he noticed how the squinting caused Sherlock's cheekbones to protrude even more than was usual. Irene Adler was right – you really could cut yourself on Sherlock's bone structure.
Ever since that day, John had been having thoughts and feelings about Sherlock pop up at the most inopportune moments. A grin over the top of a coffee mug after a smug comment became a grin for a multitude of other – not so innocent – reasons. Small flashes of teeth and hair and skin drove John wild – the fantasies had become much more explicit than the first one at Baskerville.
The touches were the worst. John would be checking his emails, updating the blog, something nondescript and day to day, and Sherlock would come up behind him, one hand on his shoulder, the other curling around a mug, and make a comment, or simply scoff. He would lean forward while doing it, and his breath would ghost along John's ear. There were times when he'd get so close that a dark curl would fall from his forehead and brush along John's temple. The thermostat in the flat had been raised by a couple of degrees over the past week – Sherlock had at least pretended to believe John's lies about coming down with a cold – he had to explain away the shivers that were bought on by Sherlock's mere presence somehow.
He had thought it was a good plan at first, but the raise in temperature in the middle of August had led to one unexpected result – Sherlock's increased leeway with his clothing. Whereas before, the dressing gown was always accompanies by a pair of formal trousers and a nicely ironed, if slightly tight, as John had been noticing with a higher level of appreciation these days, shirt, these days he was lucky – or unlucky, depending on which way John chose to view the direction his mind was going in these days – if Sherlock had anything at all besides a pair of boxers on under the gown.
He had to know. There was no way that Sherlock could tell what Lestrade had spoken to his mother about the previous day as soon as he saw him and yet not know that John, for the past two weeks, had been increasingly fascinated, and infatuated, by the taller man.
There were times when he was sure that Sherlock did know. Every so often, when John would give a particularly violent shiver at one of Sherlock's sarcastic comments whispered directly into his ear, Sherlock would linger before pulling away. John knew that if he could only see the look on Sherlock's face in moments like this that he could get even a glimpse at an idea how Sherlock felt, being that close to John, hand curling softly over his shoulder, cheeks almost touching.
And then there were the other times, when Sherlock would emerge from his room in his robe and a pair of trousers, and John would get distracted, staring at the long pale neck and the where the hell did that come from, he just sits on the sofa all day slim, toned muscles of his chest and stomach, and John was sure he could see the barest hint of a smirk on Sherlock's full, beautiful lips. He just had to know. How could he not know that all John wanted to do was pull him in close, thread his fingers through those dark, shining locks and meet Sherlock's lips with his own. He wanted to know if that cupid's bow tasted as delicious as it looked. He wanted to know what it would take to stop that magnificent brain of his to stop working if for just a split second. He wanted to know what Sherlock would look like in the throes of passion, wanted to taste that neck as it was tipped back, fingers scrabbling to hold on to something, anything to stop himself from falling over that edge.
Shit, now he was hard. Something had to change.
So there is the first chapter. Not the longest, but it's just the beginning. Bear with me, the next one should be out soon.