Author's Note: The next instalment, work on getting the rest up this weekend as a labour day treat. Little more plot, getting closer then I promise action in the next chapter! For now enjoy!
I'll Wait for You
Case 4 – Bath, Breakfast, and Alleys
John was ecstasy, he moaned in contentment as he sank further into the hot water. Not giving a flying fuck that the bubbles where scented with vanilla, it was heaven after a month in dirt and rain. He was going to enjoy every moment of it.
Out in the living room on the couch, Sherlock was rapidly clicking away on the laptop. He was convinced he was suffering some sort of disease. Since John had retuned he'd been running the gamut, sweaty, happy, depressed, hot, and confused, all within the hour. They had left the hospital, his brother throwing him a rather Cheshire type grin. It had all been very confusing. Now he was firmly convinced the web would provide the answer, he was readying himself for dire news. What he got back was probably worse then any disease he could think of. The article before him was describing his symptoms to the letter; he was in love.
His mind was whirring again, pulling all the gathered information, and fitting it together like a jigsaw puzzle. The heat he'd felt seeing John undressed, the hurt and sadness when he left, the closeness, the need to touch him be near him, hear him speak. He wasn't sure if he was in love with John Watson, he wasn't sure what love was at all. He knew though these feelings where beyond anything else, and he wanted him…intimately. Panic followed the revelation, utter and sheer terror, what did he do? This was all new territory. He'd never been so inclined to anyone, never wanted to be with someone like he did with the solider. What if John didn't feel the same way? What if his affection wasn't to be returned? That was even worse, his heart was thrumming painfully, an organ that until that moment he hadn't really understood it's true nature.
What could he do? He glanced down at the documents open, the research, the information. When the answer came to him; so clearly obvious he wanted to kick himself. He'd make John want him! Smiling then he began to read, the light of challenge in his eyes, this was not boring.
Warmed and clean shaven Doctor John Watson felt more like himself. A towel hugged his hips as he exited the bathroom another draped across his shoulders, he passed by Sherlock unnoticed, the man was absorbed in his laptop hindered slightly by his shoulder. John pass by heading for clean cloths. Opting for sweats and a t-shirt he rejoined him, silently making tea in the kitchen. Sherlock looked up, feeling the now identified pang of lust. John in uniform was something, John in sweats one leg trucked up to his knee, his t-shirt too small, too tight, was just as inspiring apparently he'd put on more muscle this month. The fabric barely staying together. Blood was pooling in his groan, shocked grey eyes looked down. He had an erection…he hadn't had that sort of issue since the awkwardness of puberty. He suddenly wanted to rip the shirt of John, and lick every inch of skin. He blinked at the sudden vision that drifted across his normally logical mind…it was very illogical.
John was saying something, he shook his head, "What sorry?" the man spoke again, "Tea?" he nodded, looking at the laptop, time to put his plan in action. "How about we watch a movie?" he blurted out startling John. Blue eyes blinked, it was one in the morning but his long sleep on the plane left him feeling wide awake. His irregular sleep on the training mission would have him thrown off for a while. "Ok, what would you like to watch?" if the solider was confused he hid it well, Sherlock was not a fan of TV and movies, well trash TV he seemed to enjoy. So why did he want to watch a movie? Getting the tea on the table he went to his small shelf of DVD's, "Any requests?" he frowned, "The one with the shark…" John chuckled, "Jaws?" black curls nodded, "Yes that one." Chuckling he set it up on the TV, moving to settle in his chair when Sherlock stopped him, "You should sit here with me…on the couch." He said abruptly, looking everywhere but at him. A blonde brow arched, he said nothing, simply sat beside him on the couch legs up on the coffee table. Sherlock, shifted and fussed for a bit before shifting closer. They where twenty minutes into the movie when Sherlock was gently leaning into him, the solider was intrigued, what was he up too?
The credits rolled and John, shifted his shoulder slightly, Sherlock having already fallen asleep slid down further against John's chest. He sighed slightly, nuzzling against him. "Sherlock?" he said softly, no movement, "Shirley?" he tired again no answer. He was out cold. Sighing he slid out from under him, he really didn't want to wake him up, he slept so little, but his lanky frame wasn't going to fit very well in the couch. Sighing he leaned down, hauling him up into his arms bridal style. "You've lost weight…" he murmured, he was way to light he was for his height. With little strain he carried him into the his unkempt bedroom. He settled him on the bed gently, pulling the covers over him. Sighing softly, he turned to his uninjured side, "John," he whispered through softly parted lips.
That soft, half sighed moan did everything to him. He stalled beside the bed, half of him telling him to leave well enough alone, the other begging for him to slide into bed beside him. He looked so different asleep, the usual lines of thought on his face clear. John forgot his youth sometimes, then moments like this he felt like an old man. That face of an angel, he smiled wirily to himself, he was getting damn romantic these days. Loosing his internal battle he leaned down pressing a kiss to that clear brow. Smelling soft curls, he brushed callused hands delicately across his face. Sighing over his own behaviour, he moved out of the room and heading to his own, rather lonely bed. Missing the grey eyes that opened in the dark, and the smile that pulled that face he had fallen so hard for.
-#-#-#-
"John!" the yell woke him with a start, "John!" the bellow came again. Groaning the man in question glanced at his clock, it was 5 bloody AM what the hell was the git yelling for? Dazed and still half asleep, he staggered to the living room. "Sherlock for the love of god, it's 5 in the morning what are you on about?" He blinked as John finally came into view, his jaw almost unhinged. The man was wearing oh so tight, black boxer briefs, and nothing else save his dog tags. He was groggy, cross, and looking better then any man had a right too. "I umm…buttons…" he muttered. Flapping his useless arm, seeming to understand he came over with a grunt. Quick efficient movements John had not only buttoned him up but tucked in his shirt as well.
"Case?" Sherlock cleared his throat, turning away, "Umm no, be back soon." He shrugged into his coat and was gone. John having given up asking questions anymore, dragged his overly tired himself back to bed. He was going to catch up on his sleep.
The second time he woke, he smelled smoke. Someone had put the cook fire on…he closed his eyes again his mind processing, he was back on Baker Street, and there should not be any smoke ideally. He was up and out of bed tugging on sweats as he went. He bounded into the kitchen in time to see Sherlock scraping bunt looking eggs onto a plate. He stood motionless, "Ahh John, good you're up." He moved to return the pan to the stove, "What is this?" Sherlock blinked looking at the plate of burnt, crispy food. "I made breakfast!" he exclaimed looking pleased. He gestured to John to sit down. He sat slowly, looking at the plate as if something may leap out at him.
Expectant grey eyes watched every move, John looked suspiciously from his flatmate to his plate and back, "This some experiment Sherlock?" that pale face fell a little, "No I just wanted to make you breakfast." John nodded, "Thank you," he smiled softly taking a hesitate bite. It was burnt, and black, but in all honesty it wasn't the worse breakfast he'd ever had. He'd been in the army most of his life after all. Happily Sherlock watched him eat, picking at his own food, he had done it. Put his plan into motion. He was ninety percent sure John wasn't indifferent to him, he had spent a lot of time thinking about the kiss he'd given him last night, while chaste had shown him that maybe there was defiantly hope
John smiled at him finishing his plate, Sherlock watched him begin to clean-up his mess. He had decided on a plan of attack last night, his research had been fruitful, dates, doing nice things for them, asking them about their day it had all seemed so straight forward. "What are you doing today John?" he asked suddenly trying to look casual, the doctor paused in his dish scrubbing, "Well I wasn't supposed to be back for another three days, so nothing I guess." He said, not thinking much of it, he could sleep some more. "Excellent let's go out," Sherlock looked excited standing, he faced his companion grinning, "Ok?" John was equal parts confused as he was delighted. "Is it a case?" he asked, Sherlock looked thoughtful for long moments, "Yes, case I'm working on." John nodded, of course work, "I'll go get ready." He said moving out of the room Sherlock's mind rolling and bubbling with thoughts, planning what would come next.
Half hour later saw the pair leaving the front door and into the foggy London street. It was a crisp morning, not as cold as Scotland but not warm either. John followed him along the street casually looking around, when you where in the middle of now where, you missed the hustle and bustle of the city. The cases, Sherlock…. "What is it you are thinking about?" Sherlock was beside him suddenly, having slowed his usual long legged stride. John nearly came out of his skin, "Good god Sherlock," he clutched his heart the man came out of no where. John shrugged, but he strode beside him looking keen to hear his answer. "Just that I missed London when I was gone, that I always rather missed London when I was gone." He spoke softly, musingly, looking at the sun peaking through the clouds.
"What was it like the war?" Sherlock asked then, looking at him piercingly. Blue eyes blinked, "Come again?" he was startled, they had lived together for a year, and Sherlock had almost made a point of not asking him about the war. "The war, I would like to hear about it." John was growing more curious by the second, as to what all this was about. He debated telling him to sod off, but something made him pause. Generally Sherlock did not ask questions he wasn't genuinely wanting the answer too. John decided to humour him, "It was hot, and people shot at me. A lot." Sherlock blinked at him, before smiling, "Very funny…"
Laughing he grinned at him, "Alright what do you want to know," the morning faded into afternoon as they wandered the busy streets. They spoke to one another as friends would, sharing memories of childhood, moments of sorrow, moments of triumph. Time passed pleasantly as they wandered aimlessly, pausing on a quiet park a bridge. John leaning back against the wooden rails, glancing at his companion. Wind tussled curls danced about his countenance, he wore a soft smile, eyes bright and sharp. Today had been pleasant, quite, and something that John could very much get used too.
Sherlock thought the whole thing had gone swimmingly, at first he'd been simply doing as the research had suggested, try and get to know John better…but his stories had been engaging. Sometimes funny, sometimes sad, but all had been interesting. In turn he'd found himself opening up, relating childhood memories of himself and Mycroft. He glanced at John, looking handsome and devilish in the late afternoon sun. Blue eyes where distant and thoughtful, it did something to Sherlock's stomach. It felt hot and tight, his breath was short wanting nothing more then to reach out and touch him.
Lost in his own mind he nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a callused finger gently brush his cheek, "Sorry, bug." John said softly, they where close now, Sherlock bent towards him, faces inches apart. Blue eyes darted to soft looking lips and he inclined his head closer, Sherlock didn't pull away gray eyes closed in anticipation. A sudden sharp ring jolted them apart almost guilty, it was Sherlock's phone. John moved away, clearing his throat. "Probably important." He said softly, the mood shattered and Sherlock suddenly angry. He had been so close to kissing John, so close… "What Lestrade…" he snapped.
"There's another one," Sherlock stiffened, "A staged body?" he asked, John looked at him frowning. "Yeah, you coming?"
"Yes, address?" he was already moving John falling in step beside him.
-#-#-#-
"How's the shoulder?" Lestrade asked as soon as they where on scene, "Fine," he snapped moving past him already dismissing everything around them save the crime. "Afternoon Doctor, or should I say G.I. Joe?" Greg teased, snorting John came to stand next to him. "What's going on Greg? Another one?" the Detective Inspector hummed in agreement, before Sherlock spoke. "Yes you have another, already dead body. Male this time it would appear, but why here…" he stood looking around the alleyway. It was a thoroughfare in a very busy section of London.
Lestrade kept silent, he had learned long ago to let Sherlock do what ever it was he did in silence. John squatted by the body, looking at the pale limbs. "He's been embalmed," Sherlock whirled looking at him, "What did you say?" Blue eyes looked up at him through blonde lashes, "I said he'd been embalmed." He was looking upwards turning this way and that, muttering to himself.
A sudden squeal of tires at the mouth of the alley had Lestrade and John looking up. A small compact was suddenly gunning towards them. They seemed to freeze, and for the trained combat veteran the world went into slow motion. Instinct took hold, Sherlock oblivious, was lost in his mind, filtering, but the car was careening towards him on the far side of the dead man. The solider was up running jumping forward he grabbed Sherlock turning as the car hit them head on. John cradled Sherlock close as they hit the windshield flying up over the top, landing on the ground in a tangled heap.
The car never stopped, metal grinding, engine overworking as the unknown driver gunned over the body, and out the other side of the ally. Peeling away in a haze of blue smoke. John's chest was on fire, his ears where ringing, and he couldn't seem to draw a deep breath. "John!" Sherlock was leaning over him, grey eyes filled with concern. "Holy mother of God, are you alright?" Lestrade looked shaken, "No he is not alright we where just hit by a car Lestrade." Sherlock snapped, John wheezed painfully, sitting up slowly, his chest was killing. "Sherlock you ok? Shoulder still good?" He asked softly, "I'm fine, you took most of the impact." Nodding he slowly heaved to his feet, taking mental inventory of his injuries. His ribs where bruised bad, the rest of the injured where relatively mild for the impact. He flexed his hands sighing when the familiar shooting pain ran up his arm, looking down at his once more crooked fingers. With deft movements he popped them back into place with a grunt. Fascinated grey eyes watched him, as he moved to the ally looking around before turning back to look at Lestrade. "I think," he said slowly, "I figured out why the bodies are staged." He turned to look at the consulting detective, Sherlock smiled slowly. "Someone is try to kill me…"