Summer had finally arrived in London, the trees coloured with vibrant leaves of green, the sun beating down on the scalding pavements. Took bloody long enough, it's mid July!
John Watson, upon returning to 221B after a brief visit to a crime scene, threw himself onto the sofa. "This weather- I've had enough of it." he grumbled, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I'm sick of it being bloody scorching."
"Yesterday, you were complaining that it was cold. Now you're complaining that it's hot?" the Consulting Detective sat at the kitchen table, examining a piece of rope under a microscope. Despite the great control over his bodily functions, the heat was beginning to affect him, too.
"Bloody impossible weather." muttered he to himself, unfolding a newspaper and flicking through the pages. Gesturing to Sherlock's workings, he pondered aloud, "Found anything interesting?"
"Possibly. Look." straightening his back, he watched as John reluctantly sat down his newspaper and crossed the room. Peering through the microscope, the doctor furrowed his eyebrows.
He admitted blankly, "Looks like a piece of string under a microscope."
"It is. But that's not what I was looking at." both men become conscious of lack of space between them, somewhat daunted in the face of the situation. Sherlock's eyes traced his partner's features, his eyes lit with delight.
"What were you looking at, then?" clearing his throat, John inquired. Rising from his seat, the brunette moved impossibly closer, his face slick with sweat.
"You, John." whilst the man was accustomed to the subjection of Sherlock's deductive gaze, he felt transparent, shifting his weight as he tried to maintain eye contact. Sherlock noticed this, stating, "I've made you uncomfortable."
"No- no. No, 'course you haven't." he stumbled, "Just uh- shocked."
Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock grimaced, "Shocked?"
"Yeah, I mean, I didn't think-" a smile dangled precariously from his lips, his words filled with uncertainty, "I don't know."
"Pupils dilated, heart rate elevated. I think you do know, Dr. Watson." John knew that his body had betrayed him, his eyes and movements revealing the truth that he refused to voice, and Sherlock could see it.
Clearing his throat, he growled, his voice low, "Shut up." his chest rose and fell with anxiety, his friend watching with an amused expression. "You...always have to be such a dickhead." said he, though a smile lit his face.
Humming in agreement, Sherlock rested a finger under John's chin, tilting his head to meet his lips. Briefly indulging himself in the kiss, the doctor pulled away.
"Not here, not like this. Not when it's this bloody hot." he grumbled, reluctantly deny himself the touch of the Consulting Detective.
A growl low in his throat, Sherlock groaned, "Oh, do shut up about the weather." pressing himself against his friend, he embraces him, their lips connected in a long kiss. Inhaling sharply, John hummed in delight. Jesus Christ, Sherlock. You'll be the death of me, you will.