A/Note: I had way too much fun with this chapter. Enjoy! ;)

4. The blind spot

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, legs crossed, elbows on the armrest, fingertips touching in front of his mouth. To the casual observer he was merely staring into space but, if one were to know his actual train of thought, it would be obvious he was staring at the empty chair in front of him.

John walked in after a day in surgery. He made a brief stop at the doorway, frowning. 'Hi Sherlock. Did you move at all today?'

Not surprisingly, he didn't respond, clearly lost in his mind. John shook his head, removed his jacket and headed for the kitchen. Sherlock's eyes flickered from the chair to his back as John puttered around, washing his hands, making tea, checking for dinner ingredients and such. Once John prepared two mugs, he turned towards the sitting room and looked back to his flatmate. Startled by the intensity of the stare, he frowned, looked down at his own clothes and back up again. The stare was still there.

'What?'

But there was still no answer. He walked towards Sherlock, and the gaze followed him, only averting when he stood next to him.

'Here's your tea,' he proffered it, but Sherlock failed to move. Annoyed, John set the mug down next to his chair and walked away to the desk. Sometimes, a mere thank you would be nice!

John grabbed his laptop to check his email and comments on his blog. As his eyes glanced at the telly, he did a double take. Sherlock was still staring at him, through the reflection on the screen.

'Sherlock, have I grown a second head? Why are you staring at me?'

No reply came. He sighed, walked all the way in front of the seated figure and bent down so their faces were level. 'Sherlock?' He waved his hand, but the eyes didn't blink, merely staring back at him. 'Sherlock?' Okay, I'm starting to get worried now. 'Sherlock?' He spoke louder and shook him.

'Hm?' Sherlock blinked, as if seeing him in the room for the first time, surprised to find John so close in front of him, their faces a mere foot away. 'When did you get home?' He said, uncomfortable with their proximity.

John hung his head and sighed, he's got to be kidding! 'About fifteen, twenty minutes ago. How could you not know? You've been staring at me the whole time!'

He was genuinely surprised. 'I have?'

'Yes! Why were you staring at me? It's unnerving.'

'I was probably staring at nothing and you just happened to be in my field of view,' he turned away, slightly surprised but thankful that there was (still hot - so, fresh) tea at his elbow.

John merely blinked at him, his forehead wrinkling. Sherlock now seemed fascinated with his tea, avoiding eye contact. 'No, your eyes followed me around, and as I sat away from your field of view you were still staring at my reflection on the telly,' he pointed behind him.

'Nonsense, John. I don't recall. I must have been thinking of a case and you happened to be a figure moving about.'

' "I must have been thinking of a case"? You mean you don't know what you were thinking about?'

'No, I didn't mean that,' he said annoyed. 'I meant I was thinking of a case and you moved around, giving me something to latch onto.'

'So you weren't looking at me, me?'

'Why would I?'

John sighed. 'No reason at all,' he muttered under his breath. 'Well, let me finish my tea, then I'll go have a shower and I'll throw something together for dinner. Did you not move the whole day?'

Sherlock looked around, and noticed it was getting dark outside. He had sat there in the morning, before John came down for breakfast. 'It appears not.'

'Then you will eat dinner. No arguing.'

...

'Sherlock! I said - dinner is on the table! Get your skinny arse in here, sit down and bloody eat! I just cooked for you, the least you can do is eat.'

Sherlock looked up, a bit baffled.

'Sherlock! If you don't come here to eat right now I'm gonna go over there and make you!'

'Oh? I'd like to see you try,' he said bemused. That was his automatic response to a threat that usually came from Mycroft.

John let out an immensely exasperated sound, threw the ladle back into the pot, and walked towards him, menacingly. With a bit of angry satisfaction he saw the stunned apprehension on Sherlock's face. He hid it right away, but not before showing his fear. John had considered doing this many times before, but had always refrained. This time, he was too annoyed and frustrated to hold back. Sherlock had just pushed too far this evening, staring, ignoring, taunting him. Plus he was a bit resentful; after working the whole day and being tired, he still cooked for someone who stayed home the whole day thinking, just so that that someone would ignore him and dinner. The last challenging words were particularly grating. John didn't condone physical violence in principle, but sometimes it was just very difficult to swallow Sherlock's behaviour. But, strictly speaking, what he was about to do wasn't really violence, he told himself, but more of an extreme action (which, except for Sherlock's case, he would have never considered doing to others).

Sherlock didn't see it coming. Next thing he knew, John had flung him bodily over his shoulder and carried him to the kitchen as if he weighed nothing, kicked a chair away from the table and dumped him none too gently on it. Bringing his face mere inches away from Sherlock's, he said firmly, 'Eat.' The quiet word sounded even more dangerous than if he had yelled.

Sherlock was too startled to speak. He looked at John with wide eyes, but John lowered his face close again and repeated quietly, 'Eat.' He sheepishly and quickly grabbed the spoon thrust into his hand and looked at his bowl of soup.

Satisfied that Sherlock was going to comply, John grabbed a bowl for himself and sat down. Maybe I should do this more often, if it makes him eat. When he looked up again, he was surprised.

'Sherlock, are you all right?' John frowned now, and touched his forehead. 'Let me get the thermometer. You look and feel feverish.'

'I'm fine, John,' Sherlock protested, moving his chair further under the table, clearly uncomfortable.

Maybe it was just embarrassment, but John thought it best to check, just in case. He went to the bathroom to look for his thermometer.

...

Later on in bed, Sherlock thought about being carried over the shoulder by a very angry John. He felt his face burning.

Such a primitive thing to do. Yet... He had enjoyed it. Immensely. He felt his body respond to it as he ate, while still feeling the imprint of John's arms around the back of his thighs. John was much stronger than he looked.

But now, he imagined John flinging him on a bed instead of a chair. Then lying on top of him. His weight and strong hands pinning him, not allowing escape. Not that he'd dream of it.

...

John was almost asleep when his eyes opened in his darkened room. He thought he had heard a muffled cry. Listening for a while, he chucked it to being drowsy, perhaps already dreaming. He thought he had heard his name. And it sounded like Serlock's voice.

A/Notes: I personally love when John shows what a BAMF he can be (Sherlock likes it too).

I credit this final version to my beta, who said "make this more of an event" when talking about John carrying Sherlock. Originally I had gone through John's actions quickly, just as he (in my mind) would've seen it: the idea springing out of nowhere, dealt and done with. No big deal to him, just satisfying his anger. So I added to it and this is the result.

I also eliminated all that was going on in Sherlock's head throughout the staring. My beta thought it'd be more mysterious and fun that way, to see it through John's eyes. You guys can totally deduce what was going on inside Sherlock's head anyway, given the previous chapters.

If you can, let me know what you think. Hope you liked it! Tomorrow, Mycroft strikes again!