[Author's Note: Egads, people, I'm so sorry this is so late. A combination of pesky real life and this chapter just NOT wanting to come out. Some chapters are so clear in my head they flow out my fingertips in minutes, and others put up one hell of a fight. This one just did not want to get written, but I am stubborn and prevailed. :-D For anyone who thinks our couple is moving too slowly, take heart — the smuttiness, and subsequently the rating, will kick up a couple of notches next chapter. I'm adding Slow Build to my tags, but keep in mind that despite the double-digit chapter count, it has only been a few days after all. In the meantime, enjoy!]
John sat on the bed, sipping tea and maintaining the barest pretense of reading a medical journal. In truth, he was watching Sherlock and planning his campaign with a single-minded intensity. Granted, watching a beautiful man and planning his seduction was no hardship, and so John took his own good time devising his strategy.
His objective was clear, and he had openly declared his intent to employ an offensive strategy. He had seized the initiative and would now retain and exploit it. Advance and retreat, exercise skillful maneuvering, and always — always — maintain the element of surprise. John smiled to himself. It was going to be lovely.
"You're scheming," Sherlock said dryly, without even turning his head.
John hummed his agreement. "I most certainly am."
Sherlock scoffed, but John could see the very tips of his ears reddening slightly, a new awareness of John in the tilt of his neck and spine. Lovely.
He began with small touches.
He and Sherlock had always been more...tactile...than two mates typically were. For all that Sherlock scrupulously avoided physical contact with those he disliked — in short, the majority of the human race — he had always been careless of personal space with those closest to him. John saw it in rare circumstances with Mrs. Hudson — Sherlock giving her a reassuring squeeze after a kidnapping, or spinning her around giddily with the news of a new serial murder. It was John, however, for whom he had always reserved his most routine and shameless infringements of the typical personal boundaries between friends: hanging over John's shoulder as he critiqued his blog, pressing close against John's back on a stakeout, asking John to reach into his very pockets...
John had never minded. From the start, he was closer to Sherlock than to any of his other mates, and the rules of personal space that typically applied between two blokes seemed simply inapplicable to the brilliant, alien creature that was Sherlock Holmes. And so John had allowed Sherlock to rest his chin on his shoulder without comment during the blog-critiquing sessions, had stood still and steady as Sherlock pressed against him on stakeouts, had reached into Sherlock's pockets at his direction without hesitation. As always, where Sherlock led, John had followed. What he hadn't done, until now, was initiate such breaches of personal space.
It was heady stuff, finally being able to touch Sherlock freely, in all the little ways. A glide of John's fingertips against his as John pressed a cup of tea into his hand, a squeeze of his shoulder in passing, a kiss to the top of his head and an absent brush of fingers through his hair when leaving a plate of biscuits by his side.
At first Sherlock seemed startled and confused by these small gestures, but he soon seemed to adjust to and then even crave them. His fingers curled around John's on the cup of tea, his hand covered John's where it rested on his shoulder, his head pushed up into John's hand and lips like a nuzzling cat.
At night, John would fall asleep to the quiet tapping of Sherlock's fingers on the keyboard. He would always awaken, however, when Sherlock slid into bed beside him. The man was all sharp elbows and cold feet, but all the same John would murmur happily as Sherlock pulled him close, shamelessly burying his cold nose in the crook of John's neck.
John would smile to himself, thinking of how he had convinced himself that Sherlock would never be a cuddler. He couldn't have been more wrong. How had he not realized the implicit sensuality of this man? He should have known, just based on the silk shirts and Egyptian cotton sheets. As much as Sherlock disdained the demands of his transport, it didn't mean they didn't exist — they were just suppressed, finally emerging tenfold when allowed to do so. Just as Sherlock gorged himself on rich food after a week-long fast, or wallowed in sleep after days of wakefulness, he now seemed to be luxuriating in physical affection after years — decades, perhaps — of being starved for it.
There had been no further discussion of exactly what it was they were doing. Sherlock could be counted upon to never broach the subject of feelings. John, in turn, scrupulously avoided any discussion of his feelings for Sherlock, half-convinced that Sherlock's decision to pursue a physical relationship was just a lark on his part, a whim that might be reversed at any moment.
He had captured Sherlock's interest for now, but what of later, when they were freed from the confines of this flat and the novelty had faded? It would be hard enough to let Sherlock lapse back into a friend and flatmate now — if John spoke his feelings aloud he might ruin things permanently and irreparably. It was not a chance he was willing to take. So he pulled Sherlock closer in the night, holding him tighter, tracing his fingers through the short curls, enjoying what he had. It wasn't everything, but it was enough.
Phase Two of the plan involved thorough and relentless snogging at every opportunity.
John started by surprising Sherlock. Despite John's nagging, Sherlock slept rarely and erratically. When he did sleep, however, he slept deeply. But John is a patient man, and he didn't have a shift at the surgery that day. So, on day four of his campaign he made a cup of tea, settled in beside Sherlock, and waited.
When Sherlock started to stir, John carefully set his tea aside. He watched as Sherlock's eyes opened, hazed blue with sleep, and then immediately sharpened to full awareness.
"Hullo there, gorgeous." John bit his lower lip, trying not to smile. Half the fun of the endearments was watching Sherlock's reaction to each new one. This one managed to make him look both disconcerted and pleased at the same time.
John carefully placed his arm on the other side of Sherlock, leaning in slowly enough to give him time to object. Closer, closer — watching those eyes widen, Sherlock's mouth softening around the edges. Even closer, until their lips were barely brushing, and John could feel Sherlock's shiver of anticipation.
"Yeah?" he asked against Sherlock's lips, just to be certain.
"Oh, do get on with it, John," Sherlock snapped, the unsteadiness in his voice taking the sting from his words.
"Prat," John smiled against his lips. He started slowly, lazily, sampling Sherlock's mouth. God, the man tasted as good as he looked, sweet and lush, and John could hardly believe that he had managed to go days without tasting him again.
He could feel Sherlock straining his neck upwards, trying to deepen the kiss. He wound his hand into those curls — not pulling, just holding him steady, staying in control. Sherlock practically growled in frustration. That was just — wow. It sent a jolt straight down John's spine.
John let the leash slip on his control a little, intensifying the kiss. Sherlock was clinging to him now, making soft, low noises of entreaty, and it made John feel fierce and possessive. God, he wanted Sherlock — wanted him now and completely, wanted to devour and claim him. He scraped his teeth along that endless, tender throat. Finally he pulled back, breathing raggedly. Sherlock lay pliant underneath him, his eyes shut, his mouth kiss-swollen. Bloody hell, he looked delicious.
"Any time," John said, his voice rough and strained. He watched Sherlock's eyes flutter open, looking dazed. "Any time you want this, you come and let me know, yeah? You decide when you want to work and when you need...distraction. I'm leaving it to you." He saw both surprise and comprehension settle over Sherlock's expression, and he knew he had guessed right. It was just like that bastard Wilkes to have gotten all stroppy about Sherlock paying attention to anything but him. Sherlock gave a quick nod, his gaze openly assessing John's reaction.
"Good," John said firmly. "I'll make eggs."
Captain John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, currently of the Campaign to Seduce the Pants Off of Sherlock Holmes, was deeming Phase Two a resounding success.
Sherlock sat at the desk most times, engrossed in the work, his pale eyes darting around the computer screen, those long elegant fingers playing across the keyboard as if it were an instrument. John puttered about the flat when he didn't have a shift at the surgery, drinking endless cups of tea, reading his medical journals or wasting time on his laptop, and generally pretending he wasn't ogling Sherlock.
From time to time Sherlock would pause all the video feeds, closing his eyes and sighing. He would lace his violinist's fingers together and stretch his long lean back, the demands of his transport finally having penetrated his formidable concentration. And John would wait, smiling internally, as Sherlock stood and restlessly walked the small flat — shifting things around purposelessly in the kitchen, standing by the window curtains that could not be opened, and always slowly, inexorably, drifting closer to John.
When he was finally at John's side, shifting from foot to foot in an odd mixture of eagerness and anxiety, John would put down his book or tea or computer or crossword. He would reach up and draw Sherlock down to the bed, or press him up against the wall, or pin him against the kitchen counter, and he would kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him, until they were both flushed and breathless. At the final moment, when John felt the edge of his control slipping, he would draw back. He would rest his forehead against Sherlock's, willing himself to calm, feeling Sherlock trembling in his arms.
"John," Sherlock would say shakily.
"Soon," John would say, half apology and half promise. "Soon."
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