A/N: Thanks to all the awesome reviews/reviewers! Each makes me jump for joy and extend virtual love to the universe!
Fun fact of the day: my hot chocolate has rainbow marshmallows in it so, obviously, some fluff is sure to follow ;)
Enjoy!
P.S. Give me a shout-out if you find my little insert of Who-ness in there... the feelings. Oh my goodness.
Honey Biscuits
The two predators watched each other intensely, trying to deduce and infer by the slightest movement when the other would finally pounce. They did mental circles, though they never moved from their seats. They snarled silently through tightly closed lips.
Staring into one another's oppositely light and dark eyes, each pair sizing up the other, one sat in a red puffing chair, the other in blue-gray leather.
Between both, the final morsel from a batch of Mrs. Hudson's famous, to die for, bloody delicious honey biscuits.
Having gotten them this morning, each man had alternately taken one throughout the day, not paying any notice to the dwindling numbers. Sherlock's head was either stuck in a book or an experiment, John was simply putting the milk away or grabbing the jam, something was always too distracting to count the remainder and act accordingly – hide them selfishly for later.
It hadn't seemed important to count till they had ended up at the fridge at the same time, both looking inside then looking at each other. The same word flashed on in their minds like a light bulb: mine.
The battle had been a silent one, the tray ending up in the living room with them. They set it down between them, then it came to this. A staring contest, a battle of wills. Neither one was really winning, though both would tell you they were.
Suddenly, Sherlock stood up with a triumphant "ah!"
John didn't realize the word was even spoken before he had already lunged and succeeded in grabbing the object of their desire. Sherlock looked very confused, then realized promptly he had indeed lost; John had it in his silly idiotic hands. How in hell did that happen?
Sherlock made a grab for it but John pulled away. This continued till they had successfully fallen to the floor and the detective was nursing a bruising shoulder and rib while the shorter man applied a bandage to a cut on his own forearm, a frown adorned on his face. Sherlock had won, as usual, and now held the biscuit in his hands like a smug kid licking his ice-cream in front of another who had dropped theirs; the show-off sots there, eye-brows drawn, not saying a word.
The taller man with the scratched arm was deep in thought, which made it hard to concentrate on as trivial a thing as applying a bandage. A moment ago he had successfully concluded how both men could in fact share the biscuit, but then he and John had basically held a mock wrestling match. The blood was pumping and, while he knew – he knew all too well – the blood certainly should not be cascading downwards into his groin from a simple wrestling match just because they had had their bodies against one another… simply because they were now attractively ruffled, or at least John was with his messy hair and wrinkled shirt… lifting that wrinkled shirt to inspect a browning bruise on his well-muscled, impossibly sexy ribcage…
When Sherlock realized he was staring with an embarrassingly open mouth, he quickly looked down and then, a second idea popped into his head like a present from his mind. Trying to bandage himself was becoming tedious and boring.
"John, I think I need a doctor," he stated matter-of-factly, holding out his arm with the band aid in his hand.
The shorter man's emotions alternated between anger and shock at the utter audacity of the complete and utter dick before him. But, as usual, he could not deny this man anything. It was like breathing, being anything Sherlock needed whether it be doctor or bodyguard. John knew the man before him never needed a friend but still he did that just as naturally as he did the rest; it all came naturally, inbred into his system.
Taking the band aid from the outstretched hand, he carefully took the long pale arm. The fine bones and pale-as-parchment skin gave the air of fragility, of vulnerability which sometimes flashed itself across Sherlock's face, the expression John saw so little of; it was always gone before he had a chance to truly let it sink in, like a smile or a sunbeam.
He knew these arms were not in fact fragile, he could feel the muscles inside them; hard, covering the fine aristocratic bones. Many days he watched them experiment on cadavers or chemicals, watched them punch criminals or hold handguns at cackling mad men. But there was still the beauty. The fine white was blemished only by subtle constellations of freckles or soft hair then, between the wrist and the elbow, there was a small scratch just beginning to grow red. It looked like a dash of color on the white surface of an orchid.
Gently, with more precision than he might use a scalpel, John applied the band aid and then, before he could even think not to, before he could even think why, he lowered his head and rested his lips on the scratchy woven fabric. It took him a quick second to realize what had happened, to realize he had just given Sherlock's arm a bloody kiss. He decided to write it off, never mention it, ignore it's entire existence in time. So, with a deep sigh and an awkward smile, he coughed and stood before the deep rumble of his name had him looking back.
Sherlock held out half a cookie, face blank but the man in the jumper swore he could see something lingering in those eyes that looked somewhere between a smile and a sunbeam.
Whether this was a gift, a thank you or a peace offering, John couldn't be sure.
He decided later it was all three.