The Science Of Seduction
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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep
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Chapter Eight: Is This A Bad Time?
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I got that uncomfortable feeling of being out-of-phase with the rest of the world for the next week or so, like being suspended in jelly, only not as delicious. This sensation of being on the edge of something, unable to move back to safety, yet unable to move forward and fall into...whatever, was both daunting and tiring. I knew that things kept changing between me and Sherlock, and I wasn't sure it was for the better...|
There was so much tension in the air, John could taste it. Maybe that's what was fogging his brain so much lately. It was a strange feeling, unpleasant, and resulted in many an embarrassing situation. The less said about his near-acceptance of a date with Sally Donavan, the better. Thank goodness Sherlock had grabbed his elbow before he could answer, dragging him away with a cutting remark for the fuming sergeant.
It was exactly ten days from Sarah's disastrous birthday when, once again, John had the nauseating experience of the whole world suddenly come into focus - the wood grain of the new dining table sharpening, sirens passing by their window blaring, the smell of burning pork invading his sinuses - only to find that twelve hours had passed that he couldn't quite remember, and Sherlock was apparently making stir-fry with a pork chop John had taken out of the freezer. According to his flatmate, John had said something about making steak, which was ridiculous, because you can't make steak out of pork chops. Obviously. It appeared that methods of frozen meat identification were not in John's hard drive.
"Where is your head these days, John? Don't tell me you're becoming as dull as all the others; I should be very disappointed were that true."
All-in-all, John felt that he could do without this particular verse of the madly-in-love-with-your-asexual-flatmate song. As he flopped back in his bed, still trying to clear the acrid smell of burning pineapple from his senses, he pondered what that song would sound like. Very upbeat and cheery-sounding, but with deathmetal-depressing lyrics. There would be a whole dance routine, too, like the Macarena, only more complex and too quick for John's stumbling feet to keep up with.
Apparently, the four-and-a-half-hour (and John had done his best to calculate how long it actually was) embrace over the corpse of Sherlock's violin had only encouraged the consulting detective that his bloodthirsty assault on John's personal bubble was effective. John had spent the last week being startled out of his perpetual daze by Sherlock grasping his shoulder tightly to steer him hither, thither, and yon; or by the feel of the taller man's chest pressing against his back while he was doing dishes, Sherlock stretching and pushing and rubbing as he reached for the cabinets above John's head; and sometimes just by Sherlock's bare foot brushing John's ankle under the table while the doctor tried to make Sherlock have just one piece of toast, please, before he withered away into nothing.
And damned if just that slight touch of skin on skin hadn't gone straight to his libido. It just wasn't fair that Sherlock got to faff about, flouncing here and there and never bothered in the slightest by his sex drive, and John had to reinact his schoolboy days, carefully arranging a book or newspaper in his lap or risk humiliating himself. Why, why was Sherlock doing this to him? Didn't he realize how very intoxicatingly sexy he was?
Bet he does, John thought with a frown as he rolled onto his side to face the wall. I'll bet he knows exactly how gorgeous he is, the bastard.
How could he not? He was an etheral mix of boyish cuteness (messy curls begging for fingers to thread through them, a shy smile that needed to be kissed, nipped, devoured) and sophisticated beauty (smooth, pale skin made for marking with teeth and tongue, lean limbs perfect for getting tangled in).
His eyes, that odd greengraygold, like gemstones in alabaster, were so captivating there were times John wasn't sure he could ever look away. He could picture them clearly, sharp, intelligent, blazing with excitement, burning into him. He could hear Sherlock's voice, a voice that could go so deep and soft it was nothing more than a purr that never failed to make John half-hard.
Groaning into his pillow, John pressed his palm to the bulge in his trousers. He had resorted to this far more often in the past few months than he had in his entire life, including his tour of duty. It wasn't surprising when all it took was the sound of Sherlock saying his name in that low, toe-curling tone. Still, it felt wrong, disrespectful somehow, to do it when Sherlock was sitting just downstairs. Hell, the man could probably hear him.
That thought should not have turned him on.
His movements were quick, desperate. Desperate for what, he wasn't sure. Was it simply a need for release, or fear of getting caught, of Sherlock knowing that John was jerking off while thinking of him -
His phone chimed, and John knew it was Sherlock, knew he shouldn't be reading texts from his flatmate while he pleasured himself, and he suspected part of him was hoping he'd gotten caught.
Come downstairs. SH
And seconds later he ended up having to wipe his...ahem...off the screen of his phone. The phone his sister had given him, for God's sake. The thought made him more than a little queasy, and he resolved to get in touch with her an apologize, even if he would never, ever tell her what for.
'Come downstairs.' It wasn't anything dirty. His mind probably wouldn't have even tried to make some ridiculous double entendre out of it if he hadn't been in the middle of what had ended up being a very satisfying, somewhat humiliating wank. So maybe he had fantasized about Sherlock demanding that he come in that excruciatingly sexy voice of his. That was no excuse for losing his mind over a bloody text message.
And what the hell was Sherlock doing, texting him? John had gone up to his room, what, twenty minutes ago? If that! For fuck's sake, he could just shout up the damned stairs if he needed something, why the fuck did he need to be texting him?
John quickly cleaned himself up and threw on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt before stomping down the stairs very deliberately.
Sherlock was curled up in John's favorite chair in his usual position, what John mentally referred to as The Folded Fan - knees drawn up so that his heels were pressed to his bottom, arms tucked between his thighs and chest, hands pressed together and fingers touching his lips as though praying. John could not begin to fathom how the man had managed to squish himself up like that, and was definitely not considering all the positive connotations such flexibility had. He stood in front of Sherlock and fumed.
Blinking, staring at John like he had no clue why he was there, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.
"Shut up," John growled, pleased when Sherlock's eyes widened fractionally and his mouth snapped shut so quickly his teeth clacked audibly. "Just shut up so I can think of how to say this calmly and rationally, because right now I'm in the mood to shout until your ears ring, and I don't want to disturb Mrs. Hudson."
Nodding, Sherlock watched him guardedly. John knew he was thinking of the last time John's voice had sounded so frantically hysterical, and was probably envisioning himself standing in the bakery department, texting John inane questions about the purpose behind so very many types of bread.
Really, John, one text had read, what is the difference between butter-top and regular bread? Why can't people butter the tops of their own bread?
Pushing away any thoughts of cuddling Sherlock that those memories inspired in him, John crossed his arms and planted his feet (what Sherlock called his Supremely Unimpressed Immovable Drill Sergeant pose), preparing for what would undoubtedly be an infuriating conversation the ended with John storming out and leaving Sherlock to sulk like a toddler. They had so many of those conversations, although less frequently lately. John wasn't sure if that was because Sherlock was being less difficult, or if it was because his patience in dealing with Sherlock had improved.
"Sherlock," he began, speaking slowly and quietly, afraid that if he let himself start yelling he might lose it entirely and just molest Sherlock right then and there, or smother him to death with a pillow, he hadn't quite decided, but such was the nature of their relationship, "I don't care if you're drowning in jam while being stung to death by wasps to an accompaniment of Yanni music. I'm going to bed. I'm going to sleep. And you are not going to text me, call me, shout for me, post me a letter, or otherwise disturb me for the next eight hours, are we clear? I don't want to hear, see, or sense anything to do with you until the sun is well up, and if I do, I'm going to use everything I've learned from you to murder you and dissolve your body in hydrochloric acid in the bath. Good night."
"John..."
Damnation! How was John supposed to be resolute when Sherlock was looking up at him with those eyes, all wide and startled like a baby deer? How was he supposed to storm out in a huff when Sherlock was calling out to him so uncertainly?
No, no, he was angry. He was furious, and embarrassed, and at the end of his Sanity Rope. He was not going to let Sherlock order him about anymore.
"No," he said firmly, narrowing his eyes. "Listen to me, Sherlock, because I'm only going to say this once more. I am not your servant. I am not your housemaid. I am not your lapdog. I am your partner, your flatmate, and your friend." Running a hand through his hair, John let his shoulders slump. It was as though the last month-and-a-half had suddenly dropped onto his shoulders, weighing him down under a mountain of doubt, worry, bitterness, humiliation, and unconditional, unrequited love. It was a wonder he hadn't been crushed entirely.
"We're supposed to be equals, Sherlock," he continued, sounding far more tired and sad than he had been aiming for. "Maybe not in intellect, but in practice, in life, we're supposed to be on even footing. I always try to treat you fairly, to understand where you're coming from, but you're making it difficult. You keep treating me like some kind of...of pet," he spat, not liking to use Moriarty's words, but unable to think of something more fitting, "to be dragged about on a short leash. And maybe that's partly my fault, because I've never refused you, and you've gotten spoiled, but you have got to learn about boundaries, Sherlock. And restraint. Like tonight."
Sherlock wasn't looking at John anymore, for which the doctor was grateful, because he wasn't sure he would have been able to continue if he'd had to look him in the eye. The lean man was looking despondant, eyes downturned and head bowed guiltily.
Resolve, John told himself. He has to know that there are limits.
"Was what you had to say to me so important that it couldn't have waited until tomorrow? Did it really necessitate you texting me while I was in my room, getting ready for bed? Could you not have waited just a few more hours?"
Sherlock bowed his head further, shoulders tense. John felt that something else was going on in Sherlock's head, and he had the oddest feeling that it was nudging at him, like when you can't think of the name of a song that someone on the bus was humming. Some part of him understood that whatever Sherlock had to say was important, and that he wasn't going to find out what it was, not after his rant.
Fuck, John thought. Fucking, fuckity-fuck, shit, fuck fuck fuck.
Whatever was going on, whatever had been about to happen, had been big. That precipice he and Sherlock had been standing on was suddenly a mile away. The aura of a missed opportunity filled to room, and John suddenly felt very, very small.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, moving to sit across from Sherlock on the footrest. "Really. I know that whatever you have to say is important. I'm just...I'm just tired," he finished lamely, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.
"You always answer me," Sherlock said quietly, tonelessly.
"Sorry?"
Looking up at John and locking their gazes, Sherlock clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them, watching John over the tops of his knees with an inscrutable expression. "Do you know how often I text, John?"
Of course, John was tempted to roll his eyes at that, but he restrained himself valiantly and waited for Sherlock to continue.
"Do you know how many people reply?"
John paused for a moment, going through his memory. Lestrade called Sherlock, but only if there was a case, and never in reply to any of the texts Sherlock sent. Mycroft called, preferring not to text, when he wanted something from Sherlock. John honestly couldn't think of anyone else Sherlock texted.
No, that wasn't true. Sherlock texted Molly with requests for body parts, he texted insults John would probably rather not be privy to to Anderson, he texted the occasional thank-you to Mrs. Hudson when the long-suffering landlady brought by biscuits or soup. Did any of them ever reply? Text back, phone, even mention it in passing when they met face-to-face?
John could count the number of texts Sherlock received from them on one hand.
On one hand, he could understand it, especially from Anderson. They probably thought Sherlock wouldn't want them to reply, or wouldn't care. Anderson was undoubtedly reluctant to encourage the man. It was logical, wasn't it? Sherlock disregarded the thoughts of others so often, why wouldn't they assume it would be no different in text form?
"You always answer, John," Sherlock continued, still pinning John in place with an analytical stare. "No matter what you're doing, where you are, who you're with, you answer me."
As he spoke, he opened his hands to reveal his mobile, running long fingers over the keys, caressing it tenderly as though it was his most precious possession. Stroking, rubbing, delicate touches...
Oh, god, he's given me a phone fetish, John thought with a mental whimper. At the same time, he leaned over, propping his elbows on his knees, hunkering down to hopefully disguise his excitement.
"At first, I did it to test you," the detective admitted, "to find out what buttons I could push, what buttons I shouldn't. But you were so...consistant. So..." Something flashed in Sherlock's eyes, and he paused as though remembering something. Then it was gone, and he was back to staring John down, face blank and voice emotionless. "I found it fascinating, how accomodating you were. It became an addiction, making demands of you. I feared every time that it would be the final straw, and every time you texted back, or called, or came rushing to my side, I felt...happy. Content. Yes, you would become irritated, but no matter how much I pushed or how angry you became, you never..."
John waited. Never hit him? Never stole his phone and put it down the garbage disposal? Never what?
"...you never left," Sherlock finished in a whisper, suddenly sounding more vulnerable than John had ever seen him, even when he was mourning his violin.
Oh.
Oh.
John wanted to say something. He should apologize for overreacting. He should comfort Sherlock, reassure him that he wasn't really angry. He should open his heart, just a little bit, and promise Sherlock that he wouldn't leave, no matter what.
"You're an idiot," he said.
Sherlock blinked at him, looking more affronted than John thought possible.
The doctor pressed his face into his hands for a moment, considering his words carefully. After a few beats, he lifted his head, slid off the footrest, and knelt in front of the chair. "I'm not leaving, Sherlock. Not until you turn me away. I need to be here, as much as you need me to be here, and I know you do, so don't act like you don't."
Letting his feet slip off the chair, Sherlock leaned forward until his nose nearly brushed John's and smiled. For a second, John thought Sherlock was going to kiss him.
John's phone chirped.
Jerking back, John fumbled for the phone (studiously not thinking about what he'd just done with said phone, entirely inadvertantly, mind you, he wasn't some kind of pervert). He tried to slow his heart rate and breathing, tried not to let Sherlock know how very much he'd wanted to just lean in, just a bit...
Thank you. SH
John looked up, startled, but Sherlock was walking into the kitchen, waving one hand airily. "Goodnight, John. Sleep well."
He did not sleep well at all.
All night, John tossed and turned. The whole affair had been confusing and emotionally charged. He still had no idea why Sherlock had texted him in the first place, and it bothered him. More than that, he still felt horribly remorseful.
Of course Sherlock had attachment issues. Of course he would believe that John would run screaming into the night one day. No doubt, plenty of people already had - the man was difficult to live with, even for someone who loved him as frighteningly deeply as John did. He should have known, should have understood what Sherlock meant with his texts.
'Are you still there?'
'Are you still my friend?'
'Will you leave me behind?'
John finally fell into a fitful sleep at six, hugging his pillow to his chest and feeling sick to his stomach with guilt.
He awoke sometime in the late afternoon, feeling like his gut was hollow and empty and his limbs were made of lead. Just the thought of getting out of bed made him want to cry, but he couldn't summon the energy to do so. He could hardly even open his eyes.
Depression was setting in, leaving him feeling cold and heavy and worthless. It was a horrible, familiar feeling that took John back to those first days after waking up in the field hospital in Afghanistan. The overwhelming feeling of failure, the knowledge that someone who depended on you had been let down.
His phone was blinking at him from the nightstand. John didn't want to pick it up, didn't want to move, didn't want to drag himself back into civilization.
"You always answer..."
With a groan and a great deal of effort, John hurled himself onto his stomach and grabbed the phone, pulling up the message.
Good morning, John. I'm at Bart's until late. Chinese for dinner? SH
John sighed, pressing his face into his pillow and wishing he had the strength to hang himself with the bedsheets. He had neatly crushed Sherlock the night before with his careless rant, and here he was, feeling sorry for himself. And Sherlock, who had every right to be hurt, was doing his best to be considerate of John's feelings.
He would have welcomed death just then.
Instead, he levered himself up and shuffled to the bathroom, replying to Sherlock's text absently as he brushed his teeth. It took at least fifteen minutes longer than usual to make himself presentable, but he did it, and when he shut the front door of 221B Baker Street and hailed a taxi, John felt just the tiniest bit of accomplishment.
His mission wasn't particularly dangerous, but it was exhaustive and time-consuming, and it was made all the more complicated by his marked ignorance of the subject. It was dark by the time he returned home, lugging his packages awkwardly up the stairs and bidding a breathless 'good evening' to Mrs. Hudson.
His next mission was the presentation. He was tempted to just leave the items unwrapped and on display, but the more mischievous part of him wanted to watch Sherlock open them himself. John wondered what the last present Sherlock had gotten had been, and who had given it. He hoped the detective accepted it; it was the best apology he could come up with on such short notice. Still, he struggled to tamp down his nerves as he wrapped the packages in bright paper. As an afterthought, he added a curly bow to the largest one.
Dinner was much simpler - beef stroganoff with actual beef. He had checked twice, reassuring himself that yes, that was the color of beef, not pork. Sherlock had picked up fresh thyme when he last went to the store, which made John smile. He knew the detective would never admit it, but he had learned a few things from QI. Ever since they'd watched the Eating episode, Sherlock had been bringing home fresh thyme and had started a series of rhubarb experiments in one of the cupboards. John had let him know that, as his doctor, he would not allow any experiments on the effects of eating only rabbit on the human body, and Sherlock had pouted mightily before complying and allowing John to spoon vegetables onto his plate.
Adding the thyme, John smiled when he heard light footsteps on the stairs, right when he'd known they would come. In Sherlock-ese, 'until late' meant 'after office hours', and the offer to pick up dinner meant 'before nine'. Usually, the combination meant 'between eight-fifteen and eight-thirty', except for one notable occasion where it meant 'ten at night'. Sherlock had been bewildered when he'd arrived home to see Lestrade and John preparing to scour the city for him, and bemused when John explained the reasoning behind it.
Today was not another exception, and Sherlock bounded through the door at eight-twenty-four, shedding his coat and shouting for John.
"Two arsenic poisonings, John! The company is recalling all of its products, just in case the workers contaminated them, the fools."
John smiled as he leaned against the kitchen doorjamb, arms crossed and eyes tracking Sherlock as he flounced (there really was no other word for it) to the couch and prepared to flop down onto it. His usual dramatics were cut short when he caught sight of the small stack of parcels sitting on the coffee table, the glittery, kitten-covered paper standing out remarkably.
"John, what is all this?"
"Presents, Sherlock," John explained. Then, because he wasn't always a nice person, he added, "Obviously."
"Who is giving you presents," Sherlock queried, looking up at John with a pout.
Raising one eyebrow, John tilted his head to the side and waited for Sherlock's giant intellect to catch up with his inability to understand interpersonal relationships.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "No, you would have opened them, surely. They were left by the couch because you know that's where I sit. These are for me."
John let the 'obviously' go unsaid this time.
"They're...from you?"
Feeling his ears go warm, John cleared his throat and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Well, yes. I mean, I was a bastard to you last night, so I thought I should...I don't know. Apologize, I guess."
Sherlock stared at him as though he'd grown an extra arm and was using it to stab himself with. Then, lowering himself carefully onto the couch, he reached for the first package tentatively, pulling it into his lap and blinking at it with a dazed expression.
It was excruciating, watching Sherlock slowly unwrap each gift, taking care to preserve the paper as much as possible (and wrinking his nose at the glitter that stuck to his fingers). He would look at each item, carefully blank, for a few minutes. Then he would set it back on the table, spacing his loot out meticulously, fold the paper into a small square to be set on the couch beside him, and reach for the next gift.
John bit his lip, heart hammering as, one-by-one, his carefully selected presents were evaluated and judged worthy.
The CDs were first, a pair of neo-classical albums, and one by Franz Ferdinand. He had lost track of how many songs he had sampled searching for something he thought Sherlock would enjoy. It had occurred to him that he had little idea of what Sherlock liked beyond classical. The man hadn't said much about John's eclectic collection (mostly dominated by 70s and 80s rock, true), but he'd never shown a preference, either.
Next was a new set of flasks, beakers, and test tubes to replace the ones that had been damaged when their dining set had gone up in flames. John had a feeling that the set that was "on loan" from Bart's wasn't exactly given voluntarily, but he hadn't said anything. Now, at least, he could return them. He could only imagine what Sherlock had said to Molly to get her to smuggle them out for him.
The third thing Sherlock unwrapped was a kit of strings, rosin, and wood polish. He stared at them for along time, his fingers clenching and unclenching as he thought. Then, when he'd set them down and folded the paper, he turned his gaze to the large package.
John fidgeted. He had taken a long time to pick it out, getting advice from as many experts as he could track down in the time he had, testing each (to the amusement of said experts), inspecting every inch before he'd been satisfied. If Sherlock didn't like it, John wasn't sure what he'd do.
The detective pulled the present into his lap with hands that shook, his lips parted and cheeks flushed. John knew he'd deduced what was beneath the fuzzy kittens and floppy bow, had known that he would from the start. He watched as Sherlock tore at the paper, impatient when his movements had previously been slow and measured. He shoved the paper off his lap and gaped at the item he held.
The case was black, rectangular, and sturdy enough to stand up to any amount of falling bee books. The inside was lined in red velvet, and it had places for rosin, spare strings, polish, and spare bow hair (something that just sounded weird to John). The doctor had been assured that it would outlive the owner. He hadn't been thrilled with that thought, but had bought the thing anyway.
The bow itself was a sturdy, German-made thing. It was silver-mounted, which John didn't get, but he thought it was notable, since it was advertised thusly. The man who had sold it to him had assured him that it was a hardy accessory that produced a warm, round tone. He didn't know much about such things, but everyone around him had been nodding with satisfaction. He took that to be either a good thing, or a well-orchestrated sales technique.
And nestled in it's own special compartment in the middle, gleaming golden-brown, was a violin.
It wasn't a rare violin, or one of those insanely-priced, two-hundred-year-old pieces that John had gaped at. It wasn't a cheap instrument, either, costing him pretty much his entire savings. Granted, that wasn't much, but it had felt a bit reckless at the time.
Now, seeing the look on Sherlock's face, it was definitely worth it.
"John," his flatmate breathed, trembling fingers tracing the f-holes, "this is..."
Moving to the couch, John crouched down and smiled up at Sherlock. His flatmate had abandoned all efforts to control his expression, and was biting his lip tentatively. His cheeks were pink, something John found endlessly alluring, and he was nearly overcome by the urge to brush his own fingers over Sherlock's cheekbones to feel the warmth.
He settled for rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly and trying to explain.
"I don't know much about violins," he started, "but everyone I talked to said this one was exceptional. It's not fancy or anything, but it has a good sound, whatever that means. And I know I couldn't fix the old violin, or even if it could be fixed, and I felt bad that I couldn't even make you feel better, so I thought I'd...y'know..."
He chanced a glance to see Sherlock looking at him now, the same stunned, disbelieving expression on his face. "Er...it should be okay, right? I mean, to play? I don't..." John cleared his throat, tugging on a loose bit of yarn on the hem of his jumper. "I don't know much about violins," he ended lamely, knowing his ears were bright red and wishing Sherlock would just say something, anything, so they could put it behind them and have dinner and squabble like they always did.
The violin case clicked closed, and Sherlock set it to the side, squares of glittery wrapping paper crinkling under its weight. He stood, holding out a hand to John, and smiled.
"It will suffice. Is that stroganoff I smell?"
John let out a breath, allowing Sherlock to pull him upright and following him into the kitchen. Sometimes, his friend knew exactly what to say to make everything okay again.
As we ate dinner, bickering like we normally did, I felt like that precipice was as close as it had ever been. I knew that if the opportunity came to take that first step over the edge again, I wouldn't screw it up. I could only hope that Sherlock would take the step with me. Oddly enough, the one to give me the push I needed was the last person I had ever thought would want to help me. Regardless, I was about to get a visit from Harry, whether I liked it or not...
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To Be Continued...
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A/N - O_O
A chapter? Holy crap! And here I was, thinking it would never happen.
I have no idea if I like this chapter or hate it. I have no idea if it's even acceptable. It just kind of happened to me, which is a little odd, considering how very planned-out this fic has been so far.
The thing about the meat identification SNAFU is based on real-life events. Names have been changed to protect the absentminded.
A special thank-you to Bloodpage-Alchemist, who pointed out that 'thank you' and 'thank-you' are two different things. So, thank you. Extensive research was done to ensure that the appropriate version was used. =3 Good looking out, dear reader. You get a cookie.
This page was embarrassing and awkward to write, and I can only blame John for being embarrassed and awkward in it. I'm very attached to him by now, and it seems that his pain is now my pain, because I find myself being a little embarrassed for him. In my own fic. Which I am writing.
I need professional help, apparently.
I apologize if the beginning of this chapter was too crude. Or not crude enough. I'm trying to keep this fic...tasteful is the wrong word, considering my plans for the future, but John uses a lot of rude words when he's caught doing naughty things with his phone. Apparently. Be warned, though, because there will be explicit sexy times in later chapters.
I also apologize for any phone fetishes this chapter inspires. I certainly have no plans of naming mine. (insert shifty look here)
To anyone who has noticed that I always seem to give a different color for Sherlock's eyes, blame Mr. Cumberbatch and his unnatural oculars. Really, what color are they? Has anyone peeked at his driver's license lately? If so, leave a note!
SHAMELESS PLUG! - I have written another one-shot about the whole 'Sherlock's presumed dead for three years, oh noez, poor John, whatever will he do?' storyline. It's not angsty. Not really, anyway. Angsty is so last week. =3 It's called Lorem Corde Meo, is SOS compatible but not necessarily related, and you can find it in my profile.
Review! It makes John lust after Sherlock even more!
Songs for this chapter: 'No You Girls' (Franz Ferdinand) and 'Truth Or Dare' (Emily Osment).
Peace.
Akiko