A/N: Hope this makes up for not updating yesterday! Second part up tomorrow
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Staring Contests – Part 1
"Sherlock, why are we doing this?"
"It's an experiment, John. Remember the rules, you can't speak."
"But really, I don't understand how-"
"I need to find if there is any correlation between the physical appearance of someone's face and the odds of winning a staring contest. A man's life may depend on it, please do try to take it seriously."
The dark blue eyes nearly rolled – nearly – as John gave an exasperated huff. At least he isn't dissecting some poor mammal on the kitchen table again, the shorter man thought fleetingly. He watched those icy blue/green eyes (he hadn't decided their color yet today) as they practically bore into his soul. He was suspicious Sherlock was trying to intimidate him and, when he saw a dark eyebrow rise challengingly, he knew he was right. The bastard was trying to win this stupid contest, which really wasn't all that surprise. The man would try to beat God if only to gloat about it later.
Two can play at that.
Taking the initiative, John narrowed his eyes slowly in his best bedroom stare and tilted his head slightly to the left; showing off his jaw line and his neck just the way he knew Sherlock liked it. He was aware of Sherlock's tendency to mark him up, to bite and to suck and to possess, if only on rare occasions – usually during 'senseless bouts of jealous rage', as John called them.
What the two of them were doing now had to be considered eye-sex.
It had to be compromising to the experiment.
John decided not to mention it.
He ran one hand from the corner of his jaw, to lightly outline it till he reached his own chin and lips, brushing over those just as soft and light; the way a lovers might. To his dismay Sherlock's eyes never left his own, though John knew, was fully aware, that Sherlock could tell what he was doing, if only in his peripheral vision.
With a devilish smile in his eyes, John opened his mouth to stick the tip of his tongue out, letting it make a lazy show of licking his bottom lip. He saw, in his own peripheral vision, Sherlock's neck muscles twitch almost unnoticeably. He could only assume the detectives hand was clenched, white-knuckled, and his trousers were on their way to being tented by now; same as his own.
Thought it had only been less than 45 seconds, John had seduced Sherlock's body and mind; body with his own, mind with the ingenious way he was dominating all of the detective's thoughts without even touching, without even speaking.
Then suddenly they couldn't go on; not because their eyes were close to watering, nor was it because the effort to not move was too much to handle. It was because their pants, trousers, positions were beginning to get too uncomfortable, too hot. Sherlock blinked first, an admittance of defeat. Erections and arousals were momentarily forgotten as John realized he had won. Then, because John is not as daft or dumb as the rest of the commonwealth, he realized something else.
"So," he started as Sherlock looked down, eyebrows drawn like he was deep in thought, "based on the parameters of your experiment, one would break contact when they're effected by the others physical appearance." Sherlock made some noncommittal grunt as he continued to study the carpeted floor, the stain on the coffee table, the seams and stitches of his black shoes; anything but that almost poignantly attractive face.
"So it's safe to say I affect you, yeah?"
Sherlock's eyes opened quickly – John sounded close, he had felt those words send tingling foxtrots down the arch of his ear; John sounded far too close and as Sherlock dared to look up he found John truly was too close for any kind of comfort whatsoever. The detective watched as those ever-deep blue eyes swept across his face; he could almost feel them outlining his bones and muscles, dipping into the crevasse of those prominent cheeks and coming up to rest at the indent of his lips, resting there hungrily. The eyes were dilated, the breathing heavy. Sherlock was lost in the expression of it all, the complete sensory overload of that fire-wood and sea smell, the visual stimuli of an unashamedly aroused doctor, the feel of those precise and sure fingers coming around to grip his own thin forearms.
John was overwhelming.
As if he saw the flash of panic on his friends face, John pulled back swiftly, averting his stare to the fireplace, where dark shadows played in the ash. He was restless now, vitally aware of every region in his body but specifically the one below the belt.
With a cough and an awkward nod, John left for the loo. Sherlock heard the shower turn on and wondered briefly if John would be opposed to the detective joining him. Then he remembered, with far too much worry and doubt coating the memory, the strangling grip on his heart the loss of control had. He hated that he hated it, hated that John hated it.
Sherlock wanted to let go, feel his mind melt over with the slow, hot slide that was John.
But he couldn't, not yet. But soon.
There was always 'soon' to look forward to.
As he leapt off his armchair he went into the kitchen to retrieve the disembodied head from the refrigerator.
He was going to practice at this contest of staring and next time, he would win.