This is new, Sherlock thought, trying to gauge this emotional reaction he was having. A perfect balance, between frustration and exhilaration. Didn't know that was a possible combination. How intriguing - would need to review this later on - annoying though - still impressive with the unique mix - not that it isn't irritating. All the while, John smiled and watched and waited. Wait, what was he waiting for? Sherlock frowned.
"To tell me what you are plotting for me, obviously," John put in, helpfully. "And don't try to lie, Sherlock, 'cause I'll know if you do and you know very well that I'll know."
His tone was mild but there was a hard glint in his eyes which showed he meant what he said. Sherlock weighed the pros and cons of telling John the truth and decided to go for something that bore strong resemblance to the truth but was not the truth itself.
"I was suddenly struck by the shape of your occiput. It's very smooth. And spherical."
Rather implausible and utterly flimsy, true, but then again wasn't that far from the truth. In fact it was less so than the truth as, where the truth was concerned, he had absolutely no idea why he was suddenly fixated with the back of John's neck whereas the back of John's head did indeed look like a nearly perfect sphere.
Thoughtfully, John put a hand up to his head and stroked it for a couple of times, perhaps to verify what Sherlock said for himself. For some reason Sherlock was reminded of the way John sometimes scratched his head and nearly smiled. Then John put his hand down, shrugged and left it at that to Sherlock's relief.
Soon they arrived at the Baker Street, paid their fare and got off the cab. They walked up to their front door and, as Sherlock didn't bother to take his keys and as they both knew this was the case, John fished out his keys and opened the door. Trailing Sherlock behind him, he began climbing up the stairs. When he was about three steps up, he asked:
"What's it going to be, then?"
Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at John's back. John elaborated, as if to answer the enquiring eyebrow.
"You're bound to take some decisive action, you being you. Might as well consent to it and get it over and done with. Less hassle that way."
"Yes. Obviously."
By which Sherlock meant: Obviously he should have told John the truth rather than its second cousin. He nearly gritted his teeth and growled to protest at the absurdity of it all. How did John Watson always manage to stump him without meaning to?
Oblivious to his flatmate's inner turmoil, John opened the door to their flat proper, hung his coat on the hook and headed for the kitchen to concoct that essential pot of tea. He called out to Sherlock, who also took off his coat and was just turning on his laptop.
"So what do you want to do with my perfectly spherical occiput?"
"I want to touch it."
Sherlock blinked. That came out without thinking and with far more earnestness than he deemed himself capable of. John seemed slightly taken aback by it also, but Sherlock noted with slight admiration that John soon recovered, taking it all in his stride, much quicker than himself.
"Like, in a normal way?"
Sherlock smiled to himself listening to John's words, said in a carefully measured tone that was in no ways calculated yet controlled, conveying everything he was experiencing - quite amused, slightly sceptic, half teasing and faintly challenging. And underlying all that was something inexplicable that made Sherlock feel slightly warm.
"Yes, John, in a normal, ordinary, boring, dull way."
"I can deal with that. Enjoy the novelty of it and all."
"Novelty of having your head stroked?"
"Novelty of you doing something dull because you want to."
"Oh, yes. That is novel, isn't it?"
Note (to dear lovely people reading this thing): I have changed the numbering of the chapters, and Chapter 1 is now Prologue. It seemed to make more sense that way. Hope it doesn't confuse anyone (*fingers crossed*).