I'm uploading this a bit early because I have thing this weekend and I'd rather you get this early than possibly late. Thanks for all the reviews, guys!

Chapter 9 – Something About Amusco

There were little moments, extended looks that hadn't been exactly the same before. There had alwaysbeen the eye contact after a case, or a fit of giggles in the hallway, but this was different. It felt unique.

The looks were quieter, the giggles deeper, the mood more sober. The post-case high was still there, but in a different form. Words were spoken in slight touches of a hand to a shoulder, or a visual connection between blue eyes and fathomless ones.

There was that one time when Sherlock rested his palm on my arm when I got agitated after Donavan had called him a freak one too many times. That had earned several looks.

There was also that time I carded my fingers through his hair on pure instinct as I had passed him sitting in his chair. I practically ran out of the room once I'd realized what I had done.

We never talk about those moments.

I do the laundry.

I'm not entirely sure when it happened, and this activity is most assuredly not something that flatmates do (especially when said flatmates are two blokes), but at some undefined moment I had looked down at the clothes in my hands as I unloaded the washer and realized the pyjama bottoms weren't mine. I don't really mind. Most of Sherlock's clothes go to the cleaners anyway.

I cook.

This just came as natural progression. Sherlock certainly won't make himself food and the man barely eats anyway, so when I'm making toast, I make double. When I make soup, I force Sherlock to eat a bowl. Consequently, I end up making the tea too. I'm by no means an excellent cook, but my food passes decently and does what it's supposed to.

I guess what I'm saying with this is that Sherlock and I have always been a little bit…more than flatmates. At least, conventionally. There has been an underlying feeling of connection since that first day in Barts. Or sitting in Angelo's with a candle flickering between us for the first time. Or when I shot a man threatening to end the genius I barely knew but knew I wanted to know, if that makes sense.

It's a bit odd for me, really.

But most of London already thinks we sleep together anyway, so what's a bit of laundry between two friends?

"That was just maddeningly uninteresting."

I snort and continue scratching out details of this case on a notepad, trying to make my doctor's handwriting legible despite the movement of the train.

Only Sherlock Holmes could find a case about two corpses found in exact replicas of de Amusco's Anatomia del corpo humano uninteresting. Complete with the sheath (if that's what you could call it) of their own skin clutched in their hands. They had been brutally murdered, really. Mutilation was a very light word for what had been done to those poor souls.

And yet, here the detective sits, bored and gracefully draped in his seat.

"When is someone going to do something brilliant, John?" he whines, staring out the window at the rapidly passing scenery.

"As soon as you stop being so impatient," I reply flatly, without removing my gaze from my writing.

There's a long moment of silence, so I glance up. He's staring at me blankly, almost as if he's trying to pick apart a puzzle of some sort.

"What?" I finally ask.

"I annoy you."

I blink. "What?"

"From the first time we met, you have made remarks such as that complaining about seemingly unsavory attributes that I possess, yet continue to indulge me with the cooking and cleaning and other household duties I cannot find the time to take part in. You say words that imply that you may be upset or frustrated, but the tone in which you voice them belie the words completely. I am fully aware that I am difficult to live with, and yet you insist on staying." He shifts so he's leaning forward a bit more. "But it raises the question. Do I annoy you?"

I stare at him for a moment, trying to absorb the rapid speech he had just laid out in front of me. "I thought we agreed you wouldn't deduce me out loud?"

"Observation, John," he corrects. His face hasn't changed.

Sucking in a deep breath, I set aside the notepad. "Do you really think I would stay with you if you truly annoyed me?"

"No."
"Then why would you ask something like that?"

A little crease forms between his brows. "I already told you—"

I hold up a hand. "No, no you didn't." Pulling that same hand down my face, I sigh. "Sherlock, do you want me to move out?"

He blinks and his mouth falls open slightly. Shock isn't something one usually associates with Sherlock. "Most certainly not."

There is another long pause after that as I mull thoughts over in my head. "Are you afraid I'll leave?" I finally ask quietly.

He stares back at me for mere seconds before turning and looking out the window again. "Of course not."

I pick up my papers again. "Then there's no need to ever ask that again, is there?"

He hums noncommittally.

The flat is cold and quiet when we return. We both shed our coats and hang them up without comment, then Sherlock takes to his usual position on the couch as I set about to make some tea.

"There's a bit of a chill. Would you build a fire, Sherlock?" I call into the other room. I don't expect him to, but it's worth asking.

I'm surprised when, a few moments later, I hear the bustling and clatters that come with preparation for a fire.

The flames are beginning to grow and dance as I make my way back to the sitting room, handing Sherlock a cup where he's sitting in front of the fireplace. His position has him right at the foot of my chair, but I sit anyway, quite past worrying about physical proximity at this point.

I'm tired. Bone-weary, really. My skin hums with the need for sleep. The heat from the fire gradually seeps into the room, casting a warm glow over everything, making the skull look ominous in shadows, and it doesn't take long before my body has melted into my chair.

Sherlock sits near my feet with his arms wrapped around his drawn-up legs. At some point, he had scooted close enough to rest his head on the edge of the chair, and his back is barely brushing my calf.

It's comfortable.

He reaches down and reclaims his cup, taking a sip and staring aimlessly into the fire. I watch him for a moment before resting my head on my hand and allowing my eyes to drift shut.

I hear him moving, and this is just another step in the natural progression of things. Just another thing we've never gotten around to doing, because that time in the bathroom doesn't count. Not really.

I open my eyes as hands, warmed by the cup of tea, rest lightly on both of my thighs, just above the knees. Blinking lazily at him, I'm remotely aware that this position puts our faces at level heights. I part my legs a bit more. Not to entice, but to allow his slim frame closer to me as I straighten and lean forward a bit.

He's staring at me, both hands slightly moving against my thighs. Those eyes are heavy-lidded and dark, and he studies my face. Hair, forehead, brows, eyes, nose, down to the chin, back up to my mouth.

I keep my touch gentle as my fingertips lightly brush against the underside of his jaw, urging his gaze up until it reaches mine again.

I smile. "Hello."

He looks bewildered for a brief moment before a hesitant smile twitches the corners of his mouth.

The first touch is soft. Hesitant. Again, my mind wonders if he's ever done this before. I press my lips more firmly against his and he sucks in a breath as he moves forward until my spine rests against the back of the chair again. His hands move to the armrests and I feel a knee brace itself against the furniture between mine.

It's comfortable.

This is nothing that needs to be taken further today. It's not demanding. I can hear Sherlock's soft noises as he moves his lips against mine, still not much more than a chaste brush of lips. And it doesn't need to be.

It's brief and warm and I'm beginning to think it could very well be a dream.

But that's okay.

Juan Valverde de Amusco's Anatomia del corpo humano is real. It's an interesting drawing of the human body from the 1500s. A bit morbidly fascinating.

Reviews appreciated! :) -C