A/N: My oh my what a busy week it has been. I'm sorry this is being posted so late-though, technically it's still being posted on Sunday since it is currently 11:45.
I just want to thank you guys that reviewed on the last chapter; your comments, encouragement, and criticism give me endless inspiration and I cannot thank you all enough. *virtual hugs all around*
Special shout out to a guest reviewer under the name "New Here": Your review made my entire week, love! Thank you so much for taking the time to write such a thorough and well thought out review! The moment I saw it I started smiling like a loon :)
Enjoy! This one is a two-parter.
Sherlock figures that since he's already woken up intertwined with John twice already, by the third time he ought to feel completely unfazed.
However, when he blearily opens his eyes the next morning and discovers that they are still cuddled up on the couch, John laying between his legs with his head directly under Sherlock's chin, the same startling rush of endorphins course through his veins. He lays there for a moment, blithely stroking his hands over John's hair and back, savoring the feeling and storing it away into the depths of his Mind Palace. He can tell by John's breathing alone that the sickness has passed, since each breath no longer sounds rattling and pained. Instead, his back slowly rises and falls in a very peaceful manner that Sherlock reluctantly likens to that of a sleeping small animal—however he refuses to directly compare John to a slumbering kitten, even in his own mind, so that vague insinuation will have to do.
Minutes pass before John begins to rouse, muttering nonsense and beginning to shift about. "Sh'lock?" John mumbles into the collarbones of the man in question.
Sherlock raises his eyebrows and glances down at the top of his head, tightening his grip around John's waist even though John's gradually returning awareness ought to have made him do the opposite. "Mm?" he questions tightly, not quite wanting to speak for fear of startling John.
But John doesn't look shocked or perturbed in the slightest as he raises his head and blinks sleepily up at Sherlock. "I feel loads better," he mutters, allowing his head to fall back onto Sherlock's chest. He still seems a bit groggy, which is perhaps why he proceeds to rub his cheek against the silky material of Sherlock's dress robes, before mumbling something and drifting back off.
Sherlock knows better than to question this lovely turn of events, and wastes no time in pulling John even closer and resting his chin atop John's head. After a quick round of deductions and a mental review of John's sleeping schedule, he surmises that he has about ten more minutes before John wakes fully.
As he lays there and absently taps Beethoven's 7th symphony against John's spine, he recognizes that prior to knowing John, he would have never imagined touching someone like this.
His lifelong aversion to physical contact could have been due to his isolation as a child; the idea of having consistent company without some kind of contract involved was baffling enough, so the notion that someone could find joy in hugging him or holding his hand was absolutely impossible. Whenever he'd seen the other children—and eventually, the other teenagers and other adults—holding hands, kissing another's cheek, or sharing an embrace, he forced down the acidic jealousy and longing that stirred in his gut, and firmly told himself that he did not care. He did not want that; he didn't need it. Physical affection remained distasteful to him as a teenager and young man, and that hardly changed when he grew into adulthood. He found it uncomfortable, false, and entirely unnecessary—and Sherlock was never one to bother with trifling matters or empty sentiment.
Throughout his life he repeated this mantra until it became a concrete fact of he who was: I am Sherlock Holmes and affection is not my area.
He would've continued to live out the rest of his days missing out on something he wasn't even aware he was lacking, if only he hadn't met freshly-invalidated, compassionate Army Doctor, John Watson.
It was on the third day of their friendship that Sherlock first realized the 'upsides' to touching. He had been hunched over his microscope examining saliva of different viscosities, when John brushed by and briefly laid a hand on his left shoulder. "I'm going to the shops, do you need anything?" At the time Sherlock had gone as stiff as a board, stunned by the causal way John doled out physical contact. He muttered a vague 'no' and then his eyes widened in shock again when John squeezed his shoulder once more before walking past him. The delicious warmth that blossomed from the place John touched perplexed Sherlock, because never before had he been on the receiving end of such nonchalant contact. No one touched him, he didn't touch anyone, and (he thought) that was the way he liked it.
Despite his initial misgivings, after that instance the physical affections grew in both frequency and familiarity. Sherlock quickly learned that John was a very demonstrative person by nature, and to his surprise, found himself wholly unperturbed by it. In fact, it didn't take long for him to become quite comfortable with John's hand on his shoulder, the middle of his back, and occasionally the nape of his neck. Their close proximity on the couch and in cabs became routine and the irregularity of their embraces lessened considerably. Touching in general was no longer note-worthy and shocking; it was just the way they were.
That was why it felt only natural that Sherlock began returning the causal touches as well.
Sherlock sighs. Sometimes it feels almost too good to be true—having a friend like John—and he fears that one day John will wake up and realize that he can do so much better than an insensitive, emotionally-awkward consulting detective.
The only thing that manages to quell this fear is the fact that he has given John many reasons to pack up and go in the past—laziness, wayward experiments, body parts in the crisper, violin at 3am, etc.—yet John has stayed through it all. Though, he supposes that isn't too much of a surprise since one of John's most prominent traits is steadfast loyalty.
"Morning."
Sherlock flinches as he is unceremoniously ripped from his musings by John's sleep-roughened voice. Sherlock immediately scoots himself back into the arm of the couch so John can extricate himself from the long tangle of his legs, but John only groans in complaint and tightens his grip on Sherlock's waist. "Don't move—comfortable," he mutters, voice muffled by the material of Sherlock's cotton t-shirt.
Sherlock supposes if anyone could see his face at the moment, it would be twisted rather comically in surprise. Possibly into a caricature of confusion, as well.
"Don't you…don't you want to get up?" asks Sherlock warily. Is John still experiencing some aftereffects of the medicine? He must be, because how else can Sherlock feasibly explain John willingly hugging/cuddling him?
"No," John replies, turning his head to the side so his words are no longer muffled. His ear is now pressed against Sherlock's furiously pounding heart. "This is bloody comfortable and I'm in no rush to pop off to work."
Sherlock knows he ought to just accept this and enjoy it without question, but his bewilderment is too strong to suppress. "You and Me. You want to…to stay like this?"
John shrugs and when Sherlock feels the contraction of John's shoulder muscles beneath his palm, he realizes that his hands are still splayed across John's back. "Why not? We've been like this all night, yeah? Bit late to get coy."
He can tell from John's tone that he means what he says, despite the teasing lilt that colors the last phrase. John's right, though: they've been like this for hours already, so what are a few more minutes?
"Well, alright." Sherlock concedes evenly, despite the fact that his heart is positively singing in joy.
After twenty blissful minutes of just lazing about on the couch, the two of them finally rise and commence their respective morning rituals. Sherlock takes a lightning-fast shower and dresses in record time, his mind buzzing with a juxtaposition of confusion, happiness, excitement, joy—but, most prominently, confusion. John, self-proclaimed "not gay" man, has just laid on a couch with him, positioned in a very intimate fashion, for eight hours—unconsciously—and nearly a half hour—consciously. He seemed entirely unbothered by the whole thing, which is strange because even for an innately physical man like John, laying between one's flat mate's legs with an ear pressed to their heart has to cross some kind of platonic boundary.
The fact that it seemingly hasn't is quite interesting.
As soon as he flies from the shower and dons his typical suit, he pulls out of his mobile to send a text to one of the few people he feels he can consult.
Sent at: 9:05am
Molly, something odd has just happened and I require your input. It pertains to John. Shall I call you? SH
He sits down on his bed and impatiently taps his foot for the two minutes it takes for her to respond.
Sent at: 9:07am
Nonsense, let's meet up! St. Barts lab and then lunch at my place? –Molly
Sent at: 9:07am
BTW there is something rather important I need to discuss as well. –Molly
Sherlock eyes the most recent text with interest. Despite the fact that they've been corresponding regularly for the past few weeks—ever since that phone call in Kent four weeks ago, he's found that they are much closer than before, though he can't put his finger on why—he hasn't the slightest idea what it is she wishes to confide. Then, after a moment's deliberation, it hits him.
Aha!
Lately, Molly has been seeing some bloke that she has not stopped gushing over since their first date, but so far she's kept his identity a secret. Wisely, Molly has given him absolutely nothing to go off of—no occupation, appearance, personality description, not even his bloody hair color—and since he cannot deduce out of thin air, Sherlock has absolutely no idea who he is. All he knows is that Molly fancies him now she'll finally divulge his identity?
Sent at: 9:10am
Yes, we'll meet in the lab at noon. SH
Sent at 9:11am
And if you insist on preparing lunch, do ensure that your pets are not crawling about the kitchen again. I've eaten more cat hair in the past two weeks than any sane person ought to. SH
Satisfied, he tucks his mobile away, only to have to remove it seconds later when it buzzes with her response.
Sent at: 9:12am
See you then! :-) –Molly
He rolls his eyes and drops his mobile into his pocket. Molly and her ridiculous smiley faces. Honestly, how can one use such a thing and expect to be taken seriously?
Feeling less troubled than before, Sherlock strides from his room and into the kitchen where he makes a pot of tea. It tastes fair, but John's is much better, unsurprisingly.
He resigns himself to the adequate drink and leans against the counter.
Despite the internal conflict that is still raging in the pit of his stomach, he feels slightly better knowing he'll get to speak with Molly soon and lighten his burden. He feels hopeful, untroubled even. Almost like—
Wait. He freezes, cup inches from his mouth. His lack of troubles immediately dissipates as something quite sobering occurs to him: the bedtime story!
The stupid, bloody bedtime story that he thoughtlessly told John while he was in his delirious, half-conscious state.
God.
He flings his empty tea cup into the sink where it clatters noisily, immediately pressing his newly-freed fingers to his temples. Think think think!
What exactly did he say to John?
The memory is hazy for a moment, then it sharpens into focus as if it happened minutes ago.
He closes his eyes and immerses himself into the memory, carefully examining each incriminating word after the next. After two intensive minutes, his eyes fly wide open and his hands drop uselessly to his sides.
What was he thinking?
He confessed all of his feelings for John and several of his own insecurities in one fell swoop!
Something quiet in the back of his head reminds him that John replied with "I hope the Doctor loves him too", but he quickly chalks that up to delirium and bats it aside.
He paces the kitchen for the next five minutes, wondering how he will possibly deflect John's questions. Though, perhaps John doesn't remember any of it; he was rather out of it, after all. Besides, if he remembers, wouldn't he have said something when he woke up this morning? He seemed fairly normal and gave no indication that anything was amiss.
This thought comforts Sherlock, but he needs to know for certain that John doesn't remember, if he's going to face John at breakfast. Before he has the time to overthink anything, his feet are carrying him over to the bathroom and his knuckles are rapping lightly against the door.
"John?" He calls.
Over the din of the shower, John replies, "Yeah?"
"Do you…are we..." he scowls at his own inarticulacy. "Are we okay?"
There's a beat of silence, before John says, "Yeah, of course we are. Why wouldn't we be?" in a confused voice that Sherlock knows is genuine.
His shoulders sag in relief and he briefly rests his forehead against the door, exhaling audibly.
Thank god.
"Er, no reason." Then he practically skips into the kitchen, relief singing in his veins.
When John gets out of the shower and seats himself at the table—smelling like sweet shampoo, cinnamon, and the enticing, indescribable scent of pheromones—they engage in a very pleasing, rather domestic breakfast. John unfolds his newspaper and skims the sports section for football articles, waiting for his toast to pop up, and Sherlock reads a riveting online editorial on the enzymic and chemically induced decomposition of glucosinolates, while his fresh cup of tea cools beside him.
All in all it is an enjoyable, easygoing mealtime.
John scoops some jam from the pot with the edge of his knife and spreads it liberally over a slice of toast. As he sucks the sticky remains from the side of his thumb, he says, "You know, I meant to tell you sooner, but I broke up with Laura a few days ago."
"Yes, I believe you told me last night," replies Sherlock, as he carefully drops two cubes of sugar into his amber-colored tea.
John blinks at him, toast hovering inches from his partially opened mouth. "I did?"
Sherlock nods and resumes stirring the sugar into his tea. "Yes, well, among other things of course."
With wary eyes, he asks, "Like what?"
"Well," begins Sherlock calmly, "you did say I was a consulting baker."
Breakfast forgotten, John numbly repeats, "consulting baker?"
"Of Detective Street, yes," supplies Sherlock, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
John winces and then takes a deep breath. "Right. Yeah. Okay, what else?"
Sherlock takes his time to raise his cup to his mouth, sipping leisurely as he decides what to start with. One particularly amusing recollection hits him and it takes all of his willpower not to snort rather unbecomingly.
"Well, you did call my brother Microsoft. That was a personal favorite of mine, by the way. Shame I didn't think of that myself."
John's mouth drops open a bit, but once the words sink in, his surprised silence melts easily into laughter. "Wow. I must've been pretty out of it, because I don't remember anything. Judging by the look on your face, I'm guessing I said a quite a few other ridiculous things, but there's really no need to reiterate all of them. In fact, I'd rather we didn't."
Sherlock grins. "So then you don't want to hear about the landscape painting you thought spoke French?"
John groans and rubs his forehead. "Yeah, I think I'm okay without further elaboration on that."
Sherlock smirks and briefly returns his attention to his tea. John meanwhile picks up his forgotten toast and takes a bite, cringing minutely at its slight sogginess. Sherlock assesses John for a moment before rising from the table and dropping a fresh piece of bread into the toaster. He knows for a fact that John likes his toast when it is hot from the toaster, not cold and soggy from being untouched too long. When the bread pops up, he wordlessly slathers it with blackberry jam—John's favorite, Sherlock's second favorite—cuts it in half, and then drops the two pieces unceremoniously before John. Immediately after, he returns back to his seat and reopens his laptop to continue reading his article.
There is a pregnant pause in which John stares at his plate then back up at Sherlock. "Why?"
Sherlock shrugs elegantly and scrolls to the where he left off in the editorial. "You don't like cold toast."
For the second time this morning, John looks surprised, though this time it seems to be a pleased sort of surprised. A small smile darts across his face and he raises it to his mouth to take a bite, pushing the cold toast aside with his free hand. "Thanks, Sherlock."
The two eat and read in comfortable silence, the sounds of the occasionally turned paper or tapped keyboard providing calming white noise in the background.
After some time, John folds his paper in half and sets it off to the side, his brow creased in thought. John worries his lip for a moment, glancing up at Sherlock and then back at his plate as if steeling himself to say something. "Sherlock, I meant to say so earlier, but…well, thank you for taking care of me yesterday, I know it couldn't have been easy."
Sherlock waves it away, resolutely keeping his eyes on the screen. "It was nothing."
"No, it wasn't nothing," John earnestly rebukes. "It was…it was good of you. Thank you."
Sherlock nods succinctly and forces himself to continue staring at the screen, despite the fact that he is no longer registering a single word. His face heats and something warm and feathery curls in his chest at having John's unwavering attention—and gratitude—solely on him. "You're welcome, John," he says slowly, finally tearing his gaze away from the text and focusing on John.
John's eyes are sincere and open; two navy-blue pools that resemble glossy ink or the midnight sky scattered with stars. Even though Sherlock is not the most adept at picking up emotional cues, he can see blatant fondness on John's face, which makes his heart positively sing.
John smiles and leans forward almost imperceptibly, his features settling into an expression of intimate familiarity that Sherlock has often seen directed at his girlfriends and rarely at Sherlock himself. He focuses his attention unwaveringly on John, his heart hammering loudly in his chest.
"Did I tell you why I broke up with Laura?" John asks softly.
Well, yes, John did actually say why, but Sherlock is not at all opposed to hearing it reiterated. Especially because this time John is completely sober so whatever he says, Sherlock can take without a grain of salt.
He clears his throat. "I don't believe so."
"I broke up with Laura because she couldn't accept certain nonnegotiable aspects of my life," begins John.
Sherlock frowns in confusion. This is certainly not what John told him last night. His spirit wilts at the thought that perhaps John's seemingly earnest words were born of delirium from the medicine, instead of actual sincerity. Disappointment aside, he schools his features into his typical mask of indifference, squeezing his fist under the table to alleviate some of the frustration and anguish bubbling restlessly in his chest.
"Nonnegotiable aspects?" questions Sherlock coolly, impressed with himself for the utter lack of emotion in his tone.
John nods and steadily meets his gaze. Despite the fact that apparently he hadn't broken up with Laura for Sherlock's sake, there is still that inexplicable warmth burning behind his blue eyes, and it confuses Sherlock now more than ever.
"Yes, she couldn't accept that you and I take dangerous cases, or that I refused to move in with her…" he trails off for a moment to articulate himself. "And she couldn't accept the most important thing in my life, the main nonnegotiable aspect: you. She didn't like you, said rubbish things about you, and hated that we spend so much time together. Once she made her feelings about you clear I broke it off immediately."
"Oh."
It is right then that Sherlock recalls something quite random: once, accidentally, he stumbled across a ridiculous, overly sentimental poem while skimming through his endless stacks of Mycology and Thanatology articles; at the time he was too indifferent to question it deeply, but looking back he supposes either John or Mrs. Hudson left it there. The poem itself was poorly written—in his eyes, anyway—and it largely surrounded the premise that the author's heart stuttered to a halt whenever their loved one was near. After reading the entire poem in less than two minutes, he finished with a scoff and chucked the thing over his shoulder in a crumpled ball. He hasn't given it a single second of thought since.
However, now he realizes that perhaps that writer was onto something, because the minute those words escape John's mouth, his heart quite literally skips a beat.
He's not entirely sure what to say in response to something like this; what can Sherlock possibly say after John has just told Sherlock he is the most important thing in his life?
Before he has the chance to think anything over, his mouth opens of its own accord and pure, uncensored truth spills forth, "Then I suppose that makes me the luckiest person in London."
The silence that follows hits like a bomb, and with each passing second Sherlock can feel blush creep higher and higher up his neck. He opens his mouth and says nothing—his mouth moving uselessly like a fish out of water—and he imagines that his own expression is even more surprised and perplexed than John's. He doesn't give himself a chance to find out, though, because he immediately cuts his eyes away and focuses on the table instead.
"That was—" John starts, but Sherlock cuts him off.
"I know, I know, er, I didn't…I meant that…you…you said I am important and I just—just meant to say—wanted to say—er," he feels hot panic curl inside his chest like a boa constrictor, his eyelids fluttering in nervous succession. God, now he's made everything bloody awkward! John was being so open, so wonderfully open and affectionate, and Sherlock just had to go and muck it all up with a weird comment that was a shade too sincere for casual conversation. God, he is such a fool, such a—
"Sherlock," says John with a smile in his voice, and the surprise Sherlock feels at his tone is enough to make him snap his head up and meet John's gaze. "I was going to say that was really…" he pauses and grins at him, his eyes bright and tinged lightly with playfulness. "You're going to hate that I'm using this word, I know, but that was really quite sweet."
Sherlock's feeling of indignation is surpassed only by his feeling of complete relief. To maintain the lighthearted mood of the room, he chooses to express the former.
"John. I am not sweet," he bites, though his tone lacks any malice.
John takes a sip of tea and beams at him over the edge of the cup. "I beg to differ. You played nurse when I was ill, provided a wonderful morning cuddle, and now you're blushing down to your roots because I admitted how important you are," his eyes are practically radiating warmth and boyish charm. "Sounds to me like you, Mr. Holmes, are sweet."
It isn't until he thoughtlessly replies, "Only to you, John," in an easy, relaxed tone, that he realizes what they are doing.
They are flirting.
Actually, truly flirting.
John grins back and the two of them share a warm, lingering glance, the silence stretching comfortably between them for several minutes. Eventually the moment passes as moments are wont to do, and John resumes reading his paper while Sherlock returns his attention to the screen of his laptop. However, the air feels different now. Tense, but not in a negative way; it is charged in a manner that makes his skin tingle and his toes curl in some strange feeling of anticipation. Anticipation of what, he isn't sure.
After breakfast when John brushes by him on his way into the sitting room, he rubs his hand briefly against the back of Sherlock's neck in a rather intimate manner, his fingers twining in the curls at his nape. "Just so you know, I'm the second luckiest person," says John lightly, but the fact that his hands are caressing the back of Sherlock's skull rather diminishes any pretense of flippancy. Sherlock sighs softly through his nose and allows his head to tip back into John's palm, not caring in the least how it must look. To his surprise, this does not deter John in the slightest. In fact, Sherlock's silent encouragement prompts him to gently place a palm at Sherlock's hairline and brush back over his curls in a slow, appreciative manner. His fingers rake very lightly against Sherlock's sensitive scalp and Sherlock depletes every ounce of willpower to avoid bloody purring at the feeling.
Instead he settles with a small hum in the back of his throat.
This entire lovely exchange seems to last lifetimes, but in reality lasts mere seconds. Just when Sherlock thinks John do it again, Johns announces, "Off to work, see you later," and proceeds to press a succinct, firm kiss to the top of Sherlock's head.
Before Sherlock's frazzled nerve endings have the chance to transmit the feeling to his brain, John is already bustling out the door, his face a pleasing shade of pink.
Sherlock blinks after him, confused and jittery with elation. John has kissed him only twice in the time that they've known each other: once, when John was utterly pissed and liable to kiss anyone's cheek, and once, after Sherlock had been stabbed in the alley by that homeless bloke, Seth Banks. Both times occurred when at least one of them was either unconscious or on the precipice of unconsciousness. This is the first time John has kissed him when they are both wide-awake and capable of making authentic decisions. Yes, it was a chaste kiss on the top of his head, but it was a kiss nonetheless, and the very gesture itself smacks of domesticity and well-worn romance. Sherlock is nearly certain that male friends—no matter how close—do not go around kissing each other's hair before they go to work as if they are an old married couple.
So, the fact that John has must mean…?
But—no! The women—his endless parade of buxom, brainless, bountifully-breasted women proves that John has no interest in men. Obvious! But, of course, there is the possibility, the slight, minute possibility that perhaps John is b—
No. No, thinking like that only produces false hope. He cannot afford to think like that, no matter how enticing it is to daydream of such things.
Sherlock groans in frustration and tugs at his hair, his mind grinding at such a furious speed that the sound of his fretting is practically audible.
Dear god, does he need to speak to Molly Hooper.
As he impatiently waits for noon to strike, Sherlock manages to occupy himself by half-heartedly experimenting on the slab of thigh Molly gave him last week. However, his focus isn't entirely in it so the results come out skewed and inaccurate. Uncharacteristically, he remains unperturbed by the failed experiment; it hardly matters since the entire thing is merely a distraction until he and Molly are scheduled to meet.
One wasted thigh and several lifetimes later, the blasted clock finally strikes noon and Sherlock practically sprints from the flat.
He's a bit annoyed to find that Molly isn't already there when he arrives five and a half minutes past twelve, but he has no trouble getting into the lab even without her keycard. He nicked one from a particularly annoying colleague of hers two weeks back, and has only hesitated to used it thus far to see if the clod would notice it was missing. Fourteen days later and he is still none the wiser, apparently.
Inside the lab, he loiters around without touching anything—begrudgingly he recognizes that breaking into the lab is one thing, but messing with unauthorized materials is entirely another—though he'd really like to examine his Fusarium samples; unfortunately he does need Molly for that, since the door to the storage chamber requires a code. On any other day he could probably figure it out within five minutes, but at the moment his mind is so full of questions and conflicting emotions that he does not possess enough focus to solve a riddle, let alone break into a refrigeration unit.
Six minutes after his arrival, Molly bustles in holding her messenger bag against her hip, her left hand haphazardly brushing back the flyaway hairs in her ponytail. If Molly is surprised to see him in the lab already, she doesn't show it. She simply walks in, drops her bag, pulls on a lab coat, and evenly says, "Please give Anthony his keycard back, Sherlock. You've got him thinking he's left it somewhere and he's been tearing his house apart in search of it for days."
Sherlock smirks and pulls the card in question from his pocket. He shoots her a mischievous look before striding across the room, sifting through the rack of labelled coats, locating Anthony's, and dropping the keycard neatly into the front pocket. "There," says Sherlock with mock enthusiasm. "Won't he be pleased to find it's been there all along?"
Molly starts chuckling, but then remembers that she is supposed to be the moral one of the pair and forces a stern look on her face instead. "Sherlock…"
"Anyway!" he interrupts brightly, clapping his hands once. "While we observe my flourishing cultures of Fusarium and Alternaria mold, I have a few questions for you."
Molly looks at him for a moment, apparently weighing whether not it is worth it to further chide him, before nodding in resignation. She glides over to the freezing unit, where the most delicate systems are stored and chilled accordingly. She slips on a pair of rubber gloves and reaches inside for Sherlock's tray of petri dishes. "You can start asking right now," she calls over her shoulder as she carefully removes the tray.
He leans against one of the counters and considers how to phrase his first question, There are so many things on his mind that require deep discussion that he firmly doubts they'll be able to cover it all in one afternoon. With a sigh, he picks the first thought and voices it.
"Molly, if you woke up with someone laying between your legs and across your chest, and they remained in that positon long after they were well awake, what exactly would you make of it?"
She whips her head around to gawk at him. "Which one of you was between the other's legs?" She blinks and furrows her brow, immediately recognizing the strangeness of the statement. "Wait—no, I meant, in this situation who is who?"
"John was laying on me. But, even after he woke up he still stayed in the embrace. He even pointed out that we'd been like that all night anyway, so a few minutes more hardly mattered."
She raises her eyebrows and leans against the counter too, the tray sitting behind her temporarily forgotten. "And…how long did the two of you stay like this once he woke up?"
"Twenty-two minutes," he replies without thought. "Then he just got up and took a shower like it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. What does any of that even mean?"
"Wow," mutters Molly, her petite forehead wrinkled in thought. "Well, honestly, Sherlock, it's difficult to say with you two because you've always been so…liberal with each other's personal space. With any other situation I would say this is definitely more romantic than platonic, but in this case I'm not entirely sure. Though…didn't you text me last night that John broke up with Laura? Perhaps that means something."
He blows up at the curls on forehead with an annoyed huff. "I don't know. Maybe. At breakfast he told me I was the most important thing in his life, then he said I was sweet, and we started doing something that felt a lot like flirting. I don't know. I've never been flirted with so perhaps I just misread the whole situation."
Molly tips her head slightly to the right in contemplation. "Tell me the bits of conversation you remember and I'll decide if it sounds flirty."
He screws his eyes shut and brings forth the memory. Without missing a single word, he recites,
"I beg to differ. You played nurse when I was ill, provided a wonderful morning cuddle, and now you're blushing down to your roots because I admitted how important you are. Sounds to me like you, Mr. Holmes, are sweet," Sherlock hesitates for moment. "Then he kissed the top of my head before he went to work."
He opens his eyes to gauge Molly's reaction, only to find her clutching her hands near chest and literally swooning, a huge ridiculous grin on her face. "Sherlock!" she exclaims, her voice reaching an unnaturally shrill pitch that makes him cringe. "Sherlock, he bloody called you Mr. Holmes! He described it as a "wonderful cuddle"! He kissed your hair! God—he all but tore his clothes off and dragged you to bed!"
His eyes widen and his cheeks go ruddy. "I—"
"No, no, don't speak. Don't try to rationalize this," she insists, her voice still several octaves too high. "God, Sherlock why didn't you say that first? I could've saved us a lot of time if you'd just opened with that quote; he's obviously mad for you! I'm so happy for you!" Then, without warning, Molly dives across the room and practically strangles Sherlock into hug.
He counts to three before carefully prying her arms off and stepping back. Alarmed and wary, he says, "Molly. There is hardly any reason to celebrate. I suppose what he said is a bit…flirtatious perhaps, but keep in mind that John is naturally intimate and lighthearted. Not just with me, but with others as well."
She rolls her eyes. "Sherlock. If someone said something like that to me, I'd know in a hot second that they were romantically interested. You're right, John is flirty by nature, but he's only exceptionally flirtatious with his those he's attracted to. Don't tell me you cannot see the difference between the way he speaks with friends as opposed to love interests; he's warm to both, but with the lover, he leans in, smiles more, makes a lot of eye contact—I mean, the entire vibe of it feels different! Did he do any of the above when you two were speaking this morning?"
Sherlock nods, but immediately crams down the hope persistently bubbling in his chest. John did smile a lot, make lingering eye contact, lean forward a bit, and the 'vibe' felt considerably distinct, but they are skipping over a very important detail: John is not gay!
"Sherlock, all the signs are pointing to—"
"Molly. He can't have…feelings for me. John likes women, remember? And as you can see, I am far from 'feminine'."
Molly takes two steps back, narrows her eyes, and looks Sherlock up and down appraisingly. "Yes, you're certainly not womanly, but I've always thought in certain lights you look quite…" she visibly suppresses a grin. "Well, you look pretty. Just a bit."
"Pretty?" he cries. "Did you just call me pretty?"
Molly laughs gaily, tickled by his reaction. "Well, you are! I mean, the eyes, the curly hair, the lip shape, those bloody cheekbones…" Molly grins. "I hate to say it—actually, that's a lie; I love to say it—but you are a bit pretty. Nothing to be ashamed of, though."
Sherlock grits his teeth. If she grins any harder, her dimples are going to overtake her entire bloody face.
"I'm not—"
"You are."
"No, I—"
"Yes," she interrupts with a smug smile, "you are. Embrace it."
He scowls at her rather petulantly. After a few moments however, the word begins to sound less like a ridiculous claim and more like the compliment (he supposes) it is.
"Pretty," he says slowly, trying the word out. Absently he recites the definition under his breath, "Adjective; pleasing or attractive to the eye." He turns suddenly and stares at her. "Am I really?"
She nods sagely. "Quite." Then, incredulously: "don't you look in the mirror?"
He drums his fingers on the counter behind him and stares at the floor in discomfort. The subject of his appearance has always ranged from boring and unimportant to severely uncomfortable, and for that reason he does not make a habit of contemplating it.
"On occasion," is his prim, vague response.
It doesn't seem like a big deal to him, but Molly looks as if he's just announced that he doesn't believe in showering.
"Oh, that is just…that must change. Right now."
"Wha—"
"Hush up and hold on a minute while I get something." She doesn't wait for his response; without another word she turns on her heel and begins riffling through one of the drawers at the other side of the room. After a moment, she procures a bathroom key.
"Come on, then," she prompts, walking over to him and tugging at his sleeve. Confused but admittedly intrigued, he allows her to guide him for a few feet. After they're in the hallway, he shakes her grip off, straightens his jacket, and falls instep beside her.
"Care to share why we're going to the loo?"
"You'll see," she replies cryptically, looking entirely too pleased with herself for his liking.
For the rest of the walk, he manages to keep his questions to himself—for pride's sake, mostly—but once they reach the men and women's toilets and Molly starts dragging him through the women's door, he puts on the brakes.
"Okay, Molly, if this is in some way connected to my comment about John liking women, I really do not think—"
She doesn't allow him to finish; with an eye roll and a slight smirk, she tugs him inside. "No one's in the building today, so you needn't worry about any women popping in here and seeing you."
He stares at her incredulously. "That's the least of my concerns. At the moment, I am mostly concerned for your sanity—or apparent lack thereof—since I can see no justifiable reason for us to be standing in the ladies loo right now. Explain."
She leans against the sink and crosses her arms. "I think the reason you have such a hard time believing John loves you is because for some mad reason you do not think you're worthy. You also seem to think that you're unattractive. Neither are the case, Sherlock."
He blinks owlishly at her, stunned by the accuracy of her words. He is used to being on the delivering end of personal scrutiny, so to suddenly receive some feels quite strange. His meek silence gives her all the affirmation she needs.
"I not only believe you are worthy of love, Sherlock, I know it. And as for your physical appearance—god, of course John is attracted to you! The entire damn world is!" Pause. "Well, until you deduce their entire lives on the spot of course," she jokes. A reluctant smile tugs at Sherlock's lips. She smiles back and continues. "The way John looks at you—the way he bloody stares—reminds me of the way some people behold art."
Warmth coils in his chest as the meaning of her words sink in: John is so obviously attracted to him that other people have noticed.
"So, as for why I've dragged you in here: I want you to step in front of the mirror and look—really look—so you can see yourself the way John sees you. Maybe then, you'll clear out all that denial and accept that there is a very large chance that your feelings are reciprocated."
He isn't quite sure why he is going along with this—this sounds like some rubbish camp exercise for insecure teenage girls—but he knows to some extent, Molly is right. He has never bothered with the appearance of his 'transport', but now that the prospect of romance has come into the equation he reasons it's high time to assess himself.
Still somewhat apprehensive, he walks in front of the mirror. Deep breath.
Sherlock decides to start with the basics: he is rather tall—exactly six feet, one inch—and thin. The latter is mostly a result of his complete disregard for nutrition, but the Holmes family is also naturally quite lean—with the exception of Mycroft, he mentally snickers—so in order to shift a bit of the blame off himself he decides to chalk it up to genetics. He doesn't mind being skinny, though; if anything, it makes the examination of his bones easier, which is quite useful. Interested, he runs a long finger down his sternum, carefully tracing the ribs that branch from it. He turns around and finds that he can see his spine quite clearly when he hunches his shoulders forward, each vertebra neatly in line beneath his suit jacket.
As for his face, he isn't quite sure what to make of it. During his brief "see, I can socialize!" stint at uni, he was called handsome by both genders, but felt so thoroughly uninterested on each occasion that the compliments rolled right off of him. Now, though, he is interested in examining their comments. He stares at his reflection and attempts to review his face unbiasedly.
His cheekbones are high-placed and sharp, making his face appear a bit imposing, and his eyes are a pale shade of blue-grey that he cannot quite define (a boy once told him they were like the ocean during a storm or something, but he can't remember the rest because he stopped paying attention the minute the fool opened his mouth).
He contemplatively holds his bottom lip between his thumb and index finger, examining the shape and feel of it for the first – and probably last – time. After twisting his mouth into several shapes and examining his puckered lips from every angle, he decides they look a lot like his Aunt Cornelia's: full on the bottom with a dramatic upper lip that rises high at its peaks and then dips low into the valley of the philtrum. Or, as someone of a simpler mind might describe it, cupid's bow-shaped.
His neck is long and pale and prominently veined; on one occasion the word "graceful" came up, but since he had no idea how someone's throat could graceful, he just sneered at the girl who'd said it and immediately deduced her entire life, right down to the foot fetish and kleptomania. Suffice to say, she hadn't considered him so dashing after that.
The only physical trait he actually likes is his hair. It's unruly, wild, black as midnight, and his refusal to comb it neatly back has always been a great source of frustration for both his mother and Mycroft. In Sherlock's opinion, his unkempt curls are not only the embodiment of his reckless, untamable spirit, but a daily act of rebellion as well. He ruffles his hands through his hair and further dishevels it. Satisfied with his brief self-inspection, he steps away from the mirror to glance at Molly.
"That was…interesting," he allows, smoothing down the lapel of his jacket.
She raises an intrigued brow. "So, what did you think?"
He shrugs. "Same as before, to be quite honest. Attraction is based on childhood role models and subconscious influence; in other words, it is quite objective. However, it was rather nice to hear that John possibly finds me attractive, especially since I do not have a few vital things."
"As in?"
"Well," he deadpans, "I lack breasts, for one."
Molly hops of the edge of the sink. "I'm nearly certain John is b—"
"Don't," Sherlock snaps, cutting her off. He cannot allow himself to think like that, it'll only produce false hope.
Molly gladly ignores him. "Bisexual."
Oddly enough, his entire world does not come crashing down as soon as she voices the word. Okay, so maybe John is bisexual. He might be and he might not be. That's that.
He blinks a few times, before nodding slowly. "Yes, alright. Perhaps."
Molly nods back, pleased. "Let's get back to the lab, yeah?"
. . .
Hours later, while the two of them are examining Fusarium samples through their respective microscopes, Molly's mobile chimes.
Immediately dropping everything, she dives into her pocket for her phone, eyes practically devouring the text. At a nearly terrifying speed, she types a message back, the clicking sounds of her keyboard echoing in the quiet lab. Their reply chimes seconds later and she is back to furiously typing.
"Do slow down, Molly. Wouldn't want to break you phone," advises Sherlock absently, his focus still centered on the most recent sample of mold.
She doesn't listen and continues pounding her fingertips into the keys.
He raises his eyes from the microscope, staring at her with a frown. "Who on earth are you—"
Ah, Obvious.
Sherlock peels off his gloves and safety goggles and turns all of his attention on her. "So," he begins smoothly. "Will you finally divulge the identity of your current love interest?"
She stops typing and looks up at him, stunned. "How did you know I was texting him?"
He scoffs. "I'm far more interested in this man of yours than I am in explaining an easy and rather obvious deduction. So go on, you said you wanted to talk about him."
She slowly puts her phone down on the counter and meets his eyes with a face-splitting grin. "God, Sherlock, there's so much to tell. So much. He's such a great guy, which I never realized even after knowing him for some time."
He raises an interested brow. "You've known him for a long time?" This is certainly news.
She freezes, briefly looking as if she's been caught, but then something occurs to her and the tension seeps from her figure. "Oh, I might as well just tell you. You'll probably figure it out anyway. Keep it to yourself please, but I am currently seeing Greg!"
She squeals and takes his hands in hers, jumping around in some sort of excited dance. She stops when she sees his expression is utterly uncomprehending.
"Greg," she repeats. "I'm dating Greg. I really expected you to have more of a response than this."
He frowns. "Why? Do I know a Greg…?"
Now it's her turn to frown. "What? Sherlock he—" she stops herself and gives him a weird look. "Detective Inspector Lestrade! You've known him for about five years, I can't believe you still do not know his first name!"
Clarity erases the wrinkles from his forehead and his mouth forms an O of comprehension. "Oh! Lestrade, yes. I'm afraid that I was under the impression his name was Gavin or possibly Geoff."
Molly shoots him another incredulous look, but seems too excited to linger on it. "Sherlock, he is just the sweetest, funniest man I have ever met. We've been going on casual dates for the past three weeks now and it's been utter bliss. There is so much I have to tell you!" She grins at him once more before glancing down at her watch. "Would you mind if we packed up right now? It's almost five—wow, time sure flies—which is too late for lunch, but we could always just have dinner at my place."
He considers the proposition for a moment. On one hand, he'll have more time to mull over this morning's John-related events and he'll get to spend time with Molly, but on the other hand, that means he won't see John for dinner tonight. Nothing special is happening, but the thought of missing out on the simple experience of eating takeaway next to John on the couch is enough to make him momentarily hesitate. Only for a moment, though. He reasons that he could use a night of platonic interaction and mental clarity—and lately all of his exchanges with John have been anything but.
He carefully begins replacing the petri dishes of mold back into their tray. "Yes, Molly," he says with a rare smile. "I'd love to."
A/N: Let me know what you guys think!
Oh, and don't worry, there will be plenty of elaboration of Lestrolly's relationship and Sherlock's thoughts on it in the next chapter. Part two will be up next Sunday. Can't wait! As a bit of a teaser I'll tell you that part 2 includes an excessive amount of red wine, romantic comedies, and what Molly calls a "girl's night in". ;)
Until then, darlings! X0X0