A/Note: Thanks ClockworkGirrrl for favoriting my story.

Enjoy a longer chapter!

13. Practice on New Year's Eve

By the third day the novelty was starting to wear off, so everybody took a lazy breakfast, taking their time to go out. Then it started snowing and it was just the perfect consistency for skiing.

'You'll see John. When it's powdery like that, you'll feel like a pro.'

Sherlock couldn't help but to be impressed that John didn't ski like a beginner at all. True, he couldn't go very fast, but still. He added another tick in his mental folder named "John's skills"...

That afternoon Sherlock's parents decided to go on a tour around the area, but as they had already done that the day before, the boys stayed in. They were lounging in front of the telly again as the snow continued to fall. John lit up the fireplace and it was cosy and warm in the room.

Sherlock was enjoying having time alone with John, almost as if they were flatmates. Yet... he couldn't stand it anymore. This sitting around staring at inane movies. He tried to keep it in with all his might, but it was hopeless. It just burst out of his mouth: 'BORED!'

'Jeez, Sherlock! You startled me. Hey, if you want to, we could train.'

He was about to agree, when he realised - 'I didn't bring my cup.'

'Oh, don't worry about it, for God's sake. Don't you trust me?'

'I trust you, I just don't trust that accidents won't happen.'

'Come on, Sherlock, pleeease? I'm bored too, there's nothing else to do.'

Sherlock paused, torn. It was always hard not to cave in when John asked like that. Plus, he was truly desperately excruciatingly bored.

'Please Sherlock. I'll be careful, I promise.'

'Oh, all right.'

'Do you want to go change?'

He considered keeping the jeans for their thickness and compression, but he couldn't even squat comfortably in them, so he went to change into his pyjama bottoms. He was glad that mummy always made them pack extra pants. He put on all three, just in case.

...

'We'll keep going until someone taps, all right?' John said brightly, as he pushed all the furniture to the edges of the room. 'The carpet is really cushy, we should be okay.'

They started standing up in fighting stances, feinting and trying to grapple the other for a throw.

Usually they didn't practice fighting as much as they did the individual techniques themselves. He had told John what Mr. Bart had drilled into him, to always look into his opponent's eyes and why. He also shared that it had, indeed, worked that way in his fight against Sebastian and his mates. Perhaps it was an extension of his "reading" others, but it was as if they were a second or two too slow for him.

Having an excuse to stare into John's dark blue eyes was a delight. It was always fascinating to see the change in him when they did fight practice. He would become extremely serious; there was no trace of his usual good humoured nature left. Sherlock could read challenge, defiance, respect, caution and concentration in his eyes. It was as if there was a dangerous animal inside John, ready to be unleashed. It gave him chills every time he saw it. Not of fear, he knew that much. He just couldn't describe it or name it.

Witnessing this transformation just made it more obvious that there was a lot more to John than what most people saw. And he was fairly certain he was the only one who saw it, which pleased him.

Sherlock was still a bit more experienced, so he managed to get ahold of John and throw him. He managed to pin his arm as they landed, but John rolled out of the grip, trying to put some distance between them and get back up.

Sherlock was faster and followed, keeping him on the floor while trying to get into a neck lock position. John managed to block the pin and, using the technique against being strangled, flipped them and landed on top. Reacting on instinct, Sherlock sat up a bit and hugged John's torso, made him loose balance and reversed their positions. John was momentarily surprised at the unexpected move and next thing he knew, he was on his back, with his neck being pressed. He tapped and was released immediately. Both were sweating a bit, sitting back and breathing hard.

'Hey, that was unfair!' John complained. 'You haven't shown me that technique yet.'

'Just didn't get to it,' he shrugged.

'Now you'll have to show me, how did you do that?'

Stupid, why didn't I just let him pin me?

'Come on, Sherlock, don't hold out on me.'

'I'm not holding out on you.' He lay down on his back and bent his legs wide apart. 'Mount me and reach out as if you were going to grab my neck'.

'If you were to punch me, I can only avoid that by getting close, like so.' He sat halfway up and clung to John's torso. 'If you try to punch me now, there is no distance for you to properly hit me, you see? That's what boxers do.' Hugging John's torso was a dream. He tried not to think of it, but it was the most intimate position they had had so far. He could feel the solid muscles under his arms and cheek, the fast heartbeat under his ear, smell the unique scent that was his mixed in with a bit of sweat, the heat from their exercising seeping through their clothes. Taking advantage of the fact that his face was hidden as he spoke, he closed his eyes and inhaled discreetly, committing this moment to memory.

'Then, pressing my feet and lying down, I'll make you loose your balance, so you'll fall over me, hands on the floor.'

'Whoa!'

'Placing my palms over your shoulder blades I push with my feet, to "walk" up on you, so my head is closer to yours as I keep you down. Now tuck your right hand under my shoulder blade, palm up, to protect your wrist. I have to trap your arm by your triceps with my palm up like this, hook my leg around yours, all on my left side. With the other arm I hug your back to keep you at close range, so you still can't punch me or get away.' I take it back, this is the most intimate position we've ever had. Now he had the complete picture: John lying on top of him, while he hugged tightly, his hand itching to run up and down his back.

'Then I roll over my shoulder on the grappling side, just like in the other techniques we've done.' Sherlock then showed him how to trap the arm one more time.*

When they switched positions, it surprised him to feel such a strong hold around his body. He could smell John's hair and it was dizzying to feel the muscled body under his while being held tightly. Even though he knew what was coming, it was still unexpected and thrilling to be flipped so powerfully.

They repeated the technique back and forth on the left side, then switched to the right, always increasing power and speed. John flipped Sherlock and landed as he was taught, kneeling between Sherlock's legs, thighs under thighs, arm pressed against his neck. He tapped, John let go and knelt back.

Sherlock relaxed on his back, but he was well aware that John hadn't moved away, still kneeling against him. Panting and puzzled, he looked up at John. This time there was a strange look on his face as he stared back, also panting. It was already getting dark outside and the fireplace cast a warm light on him, as if he were tanned again. It was very hot in the room, now that they had been wrestling for a while with the fire still going. John's legs touching his didn't help, as they were as warm as the fire. He was immediately self conscious of their positions and of how ridiculously suggestive the whole scenario looked. His own fast breathing was completely unrelated to their wrestling now.

John slowly stretched a hand towards his chest and Sherlock felt the touch burn his skin through the t-shirt. His stomach dropped as he waited; what for he wasn't sure. They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. To look into John's eyes was like being a diver going into the dark blue holes scattered throughout the seas. Just like being caught in the tides inside those oceanic caverns of unfathomable depth, he felt the irresistible pull on him. He searched and tried to read them, but they remained mysterious to him, a bit scary, dangerous, unknown and beyond his grasp. The more he tried to reach out for an answer, the more he sank into them. And try as he might, he could not avert his eyes. He thought he read something in them he dare not name. Or would that be he was merely seeing what he so desperately wanted to see? A reflection of what was inside his own depths? All the images he had so carefully buried inside his mind, real or manufactured, flashed before his eyes at dizzying speed. He was burning. He wanted John.

There was the loudest gravel-y crunch of a car parking just outside the front door and they quickly separated. John sat down on the sofa and grabbed a pillow; Sherlock curled around himself on the floor, with his arms around the knees and his back against the sofa.

Mr. Holmes walked in, thumping his boots onto the entry rug. He looked into the room and, after a quick glance at his wife, said brightly, 'Hello boys, we brought dinner. What are you watching?'

'Em, I don't remember the name, but it's a comedy,' John answered.

Sherlock tried to sound bored, 'Forgettable immediately upon being seen. Dull.'

'Well, are you hungry? Let's turn on some lights and get the plates out.'

'Not hungry,' Sherlock said. It was true anyway; he couldn't possibly eat right now, his throat felt constricted and the mere thought of food made him nauseous. Even though he had felt like burning not a few seconds ago, now he felt cold with the sweat all over his body chilled by reality. He'd need time to process what had just happened.

Mrs. Holmes sighed. 'Sherlock, did you at least have lunch today?'

'Yes, mummy!'

'Um, I'm hungry,' John piped in, raising a finger.

'All right John,' Mr. Holmes said, 'come on help me with the plates, will you?'

'We also got a cake and a small bottle of champagne, so we can toast at midnight. Mind you, just a small sip for you boys,' she smiled.

'That'll be fantastic, Mrs. Holmes. Thank you!'

'Oh dear, I'm not sure I will last until midnight,' Mr. Holmes chuckled. 'Can we pre-celebrate at ten?'

Sherlock kept his position in front of the telly, not listening to their merry exchanges anymore, but locking himself inside his mind. The evening was interminable; made worse, as it was New Year's Eve. Mrs. Holmes prodded him back to reality right before midnight.

The little bit of champagne and cake Sherlock had made him dizzy for a few minutes. John looked so alluring across the high table, his face a little pink after the champagne. Mostly, they avoided each other's eyes, but occasionally they'd happen to look up at the same time. Even though he searched for and yearned to look into his eyes again, whenever that did happen Sherlock looked away, afraid to show too much of his confusion and hopes.

Eventually, it was finally acceptable for him to retire to his room.

.

A/Note: * If you are interested, go to Youtube and seach "Gracie combatives - Lesson 1 - Slice 2