Title: Feel
Chapter 2: Scent
AN: SO, here's chapter 2. Thanks all for reading, and hope you enjoy this one too. It's a Sherlock POV, there probably won't be many of these.
Disclaimer: I don't own it. Sherlock Holmes et al belong to Conan Doyle and Gatiss, Moffat etc at the BBC. I'm just borrowing them for a short while.
Chapter 2: Scent
Sherlock POV
"The Y Files" Sherlock read aloud over John's shoulder, grasping it gently with his right hand as his left curled around a steaming mug of coffee. John was writing up the latest case and as always Sherlock was reading over his shoulder. He noticed a slight shake to John's right hand resting on the keyboard and moved closer to observe in more detail. Yes, there was a definite tremble in the index through ring fingers on his right hand – normally the steady one. As Sherlock leaned over his shoulder he also noticed a sharp intake of breath and a slight flush to the skin just under his left eye. Symptoms – was John coming down with something more serious than the cold he's had coming on for the past couple of days? It was already getting to be too warm in the flat – the thermostat had been turned up a little while ago even though it was rapidly approaching late August.
Sherlock took a deep breath and got as far as "Are you alr-" before he noticed the smell of John's neck just millimetres away from his nose. It shouldn't have been anything spectacular, just the smell of the simple soap he still uses – a habit left over from his military days, loose leaf tea and mint shampoo. But it was. Underneath was the scent of something that was purely John, something earthy and thick, something that Sherlock just wanted to bury himself in and never leave. He smelled of warmth and home, and Sherlock hated himself for those thoughts because they didn't make any sense, but still, all he could think was warm and home and dear lord, he wanted to wrap himself up in John, just like he does his coat, and never leave.
Sherlock pulled back sharply, rushing around to the overstuffed armchair and throwing himself down, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his chin, his eyes falling closed.
"Sherlock?" he heard, and opened his eyes to see John looking at him, those big blue eyes round with concern. "Are you alright?"
Sherlock's eyes fell shut again, and he mumbled "just thinking, John" as a reply just to put John off. Though it was the truth, he just couldn't let John know what he was thinking about. He couldn't tell him the truth, or even an abridged version. Not this time.
He very much liked the way that John Watson smelled.
Thinking in italics now, Sherlock? He mocked himself, but he couldn't quite get past that one salient piece of information. Yes, he did very much like the way that Doctor John Watson smelled, but it was more than that. He could pass by anything or anyone in the street and notice their scent, think it pleasant, but he wouldn't be inclined in the slightest to follow them for a while, to surround himself in their scent, let it envelop him.
His eyes were still closed, but his thoughts, his senses were full of John. He could hear him shifting slightly on the sofa, could hear his fingers tapping against the keys on his laptop as he typed. He could still smell him too, the scent not nearly as strong as when their skin was almost touching, but now he had been awoken to it the smell clung to him, seeped into his very pores, made him feel alive for once.
He was terrified.
The next morning, Sherlock was still in the same position in the armchair when John came down for a cup of tea and breakfast. He could feel John's eyes on him as he filled the kettle, but he couldn't look up at him.
"Been down here all night, Sherlock?" John asked, putting two mugs down on the counter in front of him, the sound finally causing Sherlock's eyes to open and focus on the doctor.
"Mmm" Sherlock replied noncommittally, hating the ache in the back of his thighs when he placed his feet back on the floor after twelve and a half hours in the same position. If inly his transport wouldn't let him down on such a regular basis. His mind needed to work, he couldn't be distracted by stupid body issues like all of the normal, idiotic, stupid beings on this planet.
"What have you been thinking about?" he heard John ask over the sound of the kettle boiling. He watched avidly as John gripped the handle of the kettle and poured water into the two mugs in front of him, grabbing a teaspoon and stirring, the clinking of the metal against ceramic jolting him from his thoughts.
"Experiment. Pollen. Eyes" he spoke quickly, getting distracted once more as John stretched into the open fridge to grab milk, bypassing the glass jar full of human eyes and the clingfilm wrapped spleen on the same shelf.
"Sounds exciting" John replied, his voice flat.
"Thanks" Sherlock mutters as John put down a mug of tea in front of him – strong, dash of milk, two sugars, just as he likes it – with a clink, not missing the surprised look John shoots at him in reply to the thankyou.
Sherlock opens his mouth to say he doesn't quite know what – and isn't that a turn up for the books – when his phone beeps on the side table. He reaches out to pick it up, unlocking it as he brings it toward himself.
"Lestrade" he says, reading the short but simple text shown on the screen.
Crime scene.
Chalk Farm Tube Station.
Now
Lestrade
"Let me shower quickly." The voice came from John on the sofa, and Sherlock looked up to see him swigging down his cup of tea, easily drinking half in one go, judging by the volume of the mug and the length of John's gulps. He took a big bite of his toast, the crumbs raining down onto the tshirt he wore for bed, some of them falling to the floor to rest near his bare feet.
"Yes" Sherlock spoke, unaware it was even him making the noise. He stared, transfixed, as John finished his toast and tea before standing quickly, making his way to the stairs. Only when John completely disappeared from view did Sherlock spring to his feet, the slight twinge still present in the backs of his thighs making him give a wince as he shot to his room, flinging the doors to his wardrobe open. He grabbed a suit and shirt – black and the purple silk one he favoured – and changed quickly before heading back out to wait for John on the sofa. He heard the door to the bathroom open and footsteps pad across the hallway to John's room and he headed up the stairs to brush his teeth. He made his way back down to the sofa and sat, drinking his tea as he waited for John. The drink was nearing cold by now, but that didn't matter to Sherlock. It was the taste of it he liked, it didn't matter to him the temperature. He was swilling the dregs in the bottom of the mug, watching the swirling patterns the leaves that had escaped from the bag made, almost like cigarette smoke, when John made his way down the stairs, pulling on a light beige sweater and somehow managing not to trip.
Sherlock stood, pulling on his coat and wrapping a dark grey scarf around his neck. "Ready?" he asked, holding open the door for John to pass.
"For anything" the doctor replied, and Sherlock refused to take that as anything more than was meant.
Absolutely refused.
So, there you go. Chapter 2. Next chapter probably wont be up as quick, I'm thinking a week or so between.
Tarrah.