#livefrom221b

They got back about an hour ago, all smiley and with a slight flush to their cheeks from too much sun. Sherlock fell into his chair as soon as they arrived, pleasantly exhausted from running around the city, doing god knows what. 

It took a playful kick to the leg to get him to move his lazy bum and to help prepare dinner. Judging by the delicious smell and the ingredients, I’d say they are making risotto, which is a favourite of both of them.

It’s moments like these when I can’t help but be reminded how much they actually enjoy being in each other’s company. No case work or chasing bad guys, only calm conversation and quiet everyday life. Spending time together with no ulterior motive. Domestic, open and happy. That’s how they look. 

John has Sherlock chopping onions and mushrooms, which he is doing with the same level of diligence he applies to everything he does. His slow progress is being watched with a raised eyebrow, as John alternates between stirring the rice and frying the ham.

J: Could you hurry up with those onions? They don’t need to be exact, just chop them into pieces.

S: Similar size equals less variations in time needed to reach the same degree of doneness.

The look John throws him says he is about done as well, so Sherlock relents. He does, however, turn up his nose at the resulting decrease in precision of his handiwork. He is about to complain, when suddenly there is a warm body leaning into his side, one hand braced on his shoulder,. Sherlock remains still, while an arm reaches across his front and snatches the chopping board from his grasp.

J: Thank you.

Before Sherlock has time to react, John is already gone again, adding the onions to the ham. Nervously, he swallows.

S: Don’t blame me if some of them end up undercooked.

The sizzling of the pan masks the slight rasp in his voice and his fingers seem unusually twitchy as he starts in on the mushrooms. It might just be the soft light in the kitchen, but I could swear there is a hint of colour to his cheeks.

J: I take full responsibility.

John's mouth is curved up in a lighthearted grin, unaware of the proceedings behind him. He is concentrating back on his task, giving the rice one last stir, before pouring some white wine over the ham and onions. There is a loud hiss, steam rising from the pan, and he has to lean away to avoid getting burned by it.

J: How are we doing on those mushr...

His back collides with an unanticipated obstacle and he breaks off mid word. Before he can lose his footing, long slim fingers grasp onto his waist to steady him. John instantly freezes.

S: Careful.

Cautions Sherlock’s voice from right behind him, every syllable a tendril of warm air against the shell of John’s ear. As the tiny hairs on the side of his face stand up, his skin there begins to tingle. At first, just a little. He clears his throat in an attempt to mask his reaction, but when Sherlock doesn’t move away, the sensation starts to spread out. It crawls down his neck, turning into a warm shiver and races along his spine, all the way down to his toes. The fingers just below the side of his ribcage falter, but resume their previous position after a second of hesitation.

Everything seems to slow down and the noises from the cooker and the street outside fade to a low mumble.

Then, wordlessly, Sherlock bends forward. Chest pressed against his back, he is using their height difference to his advantage and curls over John’s shoulder. He is close enough for his hair to graze the uninjured side of John’s face, while he tips the perfectly sliced mushrooms into the bubbling mixture and discards the chopping board to the side. As if on autopilot, he turns off the cooker and lets his hand rest on the counter, effectively caging John in between his arms.

John has yet to move or say anything. The only sound coming from him is his breathing, which is getting faster and more laboured with each second of contact between them. Sherlock seems to be drawn to it like a magnet, because he keeps inching closer until his forehead comes to rest against John’s temple. A tentative hand finds it’s way into his dark curls and his eyes fall shut, lost in the moment.

The rise and fall of their chests has synced up, quick and shallow. Every time Sherlock sucks in air, the short wisps of blond hair before him tickle across his lips. Every time he breathes out, they glide back over John’s cheek, making him shiver yet again.

With a soft nudge, Sherlock pushes his forehead and nose further into the heated skin. His fingers tighten around John’s waist, as if trying to pull him closer, asking him to do something, anything, wanting to know what comes next. 

John’s forehead is crinkled up, eyes and lips pressed shut tightly. He seems to be fighting with himself, trying to resist, terrified he is reading this wrong yet again. Then, almost against his will, he begins to shift. Inch by painful inch, his head turns until his nose touches Sherlock’s. They seem to be frozen in time, breathing each other’s air, bodies tingling in anticipation and fear, neither of them daring to move.

It’s John who breaks first. Between one thundering heartbeat and the next, he closes the distance between them, lip’s finding Sherlock’s, warm and pliant. It’s a chaste kiss, barely more than a drawn out peck. Quiet, with both of them not daring to breathe.

Finally, John pulls back. As soon as their lips stop touching, though, his finger’s in Sherlock’s hair tighten imperceptibly, pulling him in once more, just for a second, soft pressure and dry skin, one last indulgence, before he manages to get a hold of himself.

With his eyes still closed, he rest’s his forehead against Sherlock’s, unable to draw back any further than that.

J: Is this okay?

There is a slight tremble to his whispered words and his worst fears seem to come to pass when the room remains ominously silent. He lifts his head in trepidation and glances up at Sherlock, who is staring right through him with an unreadable expression.

Slowly untangling his fingers from within his curls, John turns around, his body no longer facing the cooker, but Sherlock. His last glimmer of hope is the hand on his waist that still hasn’t stopped touching him, only releasing him to accommodate the motion of him turning, before coming to rest on the opposite side of his waist.

Even if he wanted to, John has got nowhere to go, trapped between the counter and Sherlock’s arms. So he waits.

Eventually Sherlock starts to come back to himself. He sucks in a gulp of air, lashes fluttering with every blink until his unfocused gaze clears.

S: That was g...

He breaks off, surprised by how raspy his own voice sounds. A small crinkle appears between his brows as he clears his throat.

S: ...good.

His tongue darts out to lick his lips and he averts his wide eyes to the floor.

John huffs out a relieved chuckle. The tension flows from his shoulders, body slumping forward into Sherlock, who instinctively wraps his arms around him.

S: We are definitely doing that again.

Sherlock is still a bit dazed and it shows in his voice, which causes John to giggle-snort into his skin. His face is buried in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and he lingers a second longer before he pulls back to beam up at him.

J: Dinner?

Apparently John had forgotten all about the Medical Conference and his plans to visit some extended family and friends while he is up there. Considering the whirlwind that was the past couple of days, I can’t even say I blame him. The case, Soo Lin’s death, everything happening between him and Sherlock... The poor man has had other things on his overworked and tired mind.

Now he can’t seem to get it off his mind.

All throughout breakfast he kept fussing about. Halfheartedly poking at his eggs, fingers scratching along the handle of his steaming mug of tea, eyes flittering across the table. He was a nervous mess.

Of course Sherlock noticed right away the change in mood. He waited patiently, face hidden behind the morning paper, to give John time to collect his thoughts. After a couple of minutes of this, though, he let out a resigned sigh, put down the newspaper and prodded until John talked.

Turns out John will be gone for a little more than a month. And he is leaving tomorrow. With Sarah. So...yeah.

Let’s just say breakfast was a quiet affair after that.

When John gets home, Sherlock is lying bonelessly across his armchair, bare feet hanging off of the armrest facing the door, while his head is dangling from the other one. He has been this way for a good twenty minutes, motionless apart from his wiggling toes. Must be hell on his back and neck, but he seems happy where he is. Not like we own a couch or anything.

John halts in the middle of the room to regard his curious flatmate with an amused grin.

J: Hello. What have you been up to today?

A lazy smile blooms on Sherlock’s upside-down face.

S: Absolutely nothing.

At his proud and self-satisfied tone, John chortles and wags his head as he hangs up his jacket. On his way over he flicks one of Sherlock’s toes, before sinking down into his own armchair.

S: Busy day?

J: You can say that. On top of my own patients, Sarah had me consult on a couple of hers. Barely had time to go to the bathroom, let alone have lunch. I think she is still a bit angry with me, not that I can blame her. But she seems to be doing better, all things considered.

Sherlock’s head bobbles in what is supposed to be a nod, but comes out all wrong in his weird position. John doesn’t pay him any mind anyway, gaze averted, while his fingers toy with the fabric of his jeans. He is biting his lip in contemplation before he continues.

J: I told her about...this.

Sherlock looks up just in time to catch him gesturing between them, unsure of what to call this new thing they have.

S: Oh. How did she take it?

Sherlock sounds unaffected, but his toes have stopped their happy wiggling. At John’s put upon huff of breath, a slight frown forms between his brows.

J: She laughed, right at my face. Then she stormed out and told nurse Addy she owed her twenty quid. Guess they had a bet going, or something.

Sitting up further from his slouch, Sherlock blinks at him in befuddlement.

S: About us?

J: No, about the Easter bunny coming early this year. Yes, about us. Apparently I’ve been “wagging my chin off” about you, ever since I started working there. Their words, not mine.

The last part is said with obvious embarrassment, which causes Sherlock to brighten up with delight. John has sunken down further in his chair and is squinting at him in disgruntlement.

S: You talk about me at work?

J: Oh, don’t look so smug. Not like I have anything else going on to talk about. I just mentioned you from time to time.

Is John’s poor attempt of curbing Sherlock’s growing glee. But it’s too little, too late, because his miffed expression is met with a wide grin.

S: You chin-wag about me at work. 

London is starting to wake up and the sky is just between night and day when John and Sherlock finally, FINALLY return home. It’s a good thing I am no longer able to bite my nails, because they would have been bitten down to the quick by now. The past hours of waiting have been torture, so seeing them both back here in one piece gives me more joy than I can put into words.

They look exhausted and John has got a cut on his forehead, but apart from that they appear to be fine. I hope Sarah is okay, as well. She isn’t with them, not that I can blame her. After facing off against Chinese assassins and being abducted all in one night, I’d want to go home and rest up, too.

The living room is painted in warm colours from the first rays of sunlight, bathing John‘s silhouette in a soft glow as he walks over towards the windows. He is quiet while his eyes trace the yellow symbols on the glass. Sherlock is still lingering in the doorway, watching his every move, as if he was scared John would vanish the second he didn’t have him within his sight.

S: Dead Man.

The soft words cause John to glance over his shoulder at him. Sherlock quickly averts his eyes, pretending he has been staring at the graffiti the entire time.

J: What?

S: That’s what it says. Dead Man.

J: Oh.

John turns around again to inspect the scribbles once more.

J: That’s going to be a pain to get rid off.

He sighs and drags a hand over his face. When his fingers graze the wound on his forehead he flinches back. He lowers his hand and regards the red stains of blood on his fingers in surprise, as if he had forgotten all about it.

Sherlock seems to snap back to the present at that. He focuses on John’s injury with an unreadable expression on his face, lips pressed into a thin line.

S: It can wait.

In three long strides he is across the room and crowding in next to him to take a closer look at the cut. John startles a little when careful fingers push back a few wisps of his hair that have gotten caught in the slowly drying blood, but holds still nonetheless.

S: First we need to get this cleaned. Where is your medical kit?

J: Upstairs, on the chair by the door. But you don’t have to...

His voice trails off, because his flatmate is already halfway up the stairs. With a shake of his head he shrugs out of his jacket and takes a seat on one of the kitchen chairs. He has barely had time to make space on the table when Sherlock returns with the bag.

It’s a strange mirror of the last instance they had to use the medical kit, except this time their places are reversed, with John sitting here quietly, watching Sherlock spread out the medical supplies to see to his wound.

J: You know what you are doing?

It’s said in a teasing tone, causing Sherlock’s lips to twitch at the corners, aware of the irony of the situation.

S: I might not be a doctor, John, but I am well-versed in first aid. So yes. I know what I am doing.

A small chuckle escapes from John, who holds up his hands in a placating manner before they lapse back into silence. Sherlock doesn’t have to search long to find the package of disinfectant wipes. After cleaning his hands with them, he pulls out a fresh one and steps in front of John. Then he hesitates.

S: Could you...

He twirls one finger in a circle, indicating for him to turn around in his seat, so he doesn’t have to lean over him to be able to reach the wound.

J: Oh, yes, sorry.

Comes the mumbled reply, quickly followed by another self-deprecating chuckle.

J: I’m not used to being on this side of things.

Sherlock leans in closer to get a better look. Wordlessly, he reaches out with one hand and delicately starts to dab away the crusted blood, while he uses his other hand to keep John’s hair from falling back down over the cut. As soon as he notices the discomfort on John’s scrunched up face, his previously sure fingers falter.

S: Sorry.

J: It’s okay. Can’t be helped.

With one hand still holding up John’s hair, Sherlock discards the now dirty wipe and pulls out a fresh one. He is about to resume his task, when John’s phone beeps.

Careful not to move his head, John fishes it out of his pocket and holds it up to read the new text message. He sighs and types out a quick reply. Sherlock remains quiet during this short exchange, fingers playing with the piece of cotton in his hand, while he waits patiently until John puts the device away.

S: Sarah?

J: Yeah. I told her to text me when she got home. She just got in. Said she is going to stay at a friend’s place for the day to rest up.

Sherlock nods and finishes cleaning the cut, but his posture has tensed up. Since he can’t afford to let go of John’s strands of hair without risking having to start all over again, he is left with only one hand to open the box of butterfly plasters. He is on his third try when John takes pity on him and snatches it out of his fingers. Swiftly, he pulls open the lid and waves one of the bandage strips in Sherlock’s direction.

J: You don’t care for her all that much, do you?

S: Who, Sarah? Whatever gave you that impression?

His voice is nonchalant as he secures the first plaster over the damaged skin and takes the second one John is already holding out for him.

J: Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the way you’ve been either ignoring or needling her all evening long?

S: I did nothing of the sort.

Sherlock grumbles as he slides the bandage into place. He waggles his fingers at John for one more strip, but refuses to meet his miffed expression. John huffs out an exasperated breath and shoves the plaster into Sherlock’s hand.

J: Please. With all your pestering, you had her thinking you were jealous.

John’s words were infused with good-natured bafflement, but Sherlock freezes nonetheless. His grip goes slack and the bandage slips from his fingers. It is saved from falling to the ground by John’s quick reflexes, who is visibly surprised by the sudden fumble. Before he has time to speak up, though, Sherlock has already snatched it up again and is securing it over the last exposed bit of the cut.

John is blinking up at him, brow furrowed in question as he waits for an explanation. He is all patched up now, so Sherlock should step back out of his personal space and let go of his forehead, but his hands and legs seem to be refusing to cooperate. Instead, he lingers a beat longer, fingers gliding one more time over the edges of the bandages, as if to make sure they will hold in place. A regretful frown ghosts over his face.

S: I like her just fine. She can hold her own and she is very...perceptive.

The last word is no louder than the drop of a pin and probably wasn’t even meant to be said out loud, but with Sherlock standing so close, John hears it anyway. Then the deeper meaning of the unexpected compliment begins to sink in. His eyes grow wide, mouth falling open with no sound coming out.

Too late, Sherlock realises his mistake and startles back. John’s hair slips from his fingers and he is about to draw away, but John is quicker and grabs his wrist before he has time to retreat more than a step.

J: What?

He sounds breathless and a little surprised by his own actions. Over the past weeks he has been so careful not to initiate any contact between them, apart from a friendly pat on the back every once in a while.

One word. One tiny word was all it took to shatter his resolve. His eyes are roaming over Sherlock’s now closed off face, trying to pierce through his mask.

Sherlock is refusing to meet his searching gaze. The muscles in his arm have tensed up, yet he doesn’t put up any real resistance against John’s grip, just stands there, stuck.

J: What did you just say?

Sherlock’s throat seems to be clenching up in trepidation, because his voice is gravely and clipped when he answers.

S: Let go of me.

J: No.

S: I said let go of me.

J: And I said no. Not, unless you answer my question.

In one last display of defiance, Sherlock gives a half-hearted tug and John, true to his word, doesn’t let go, just softens his hold. He has gotten up from his chair by now, standing there with nowhere to go like a man at the end of his rope.

J: Sherlock... Please.

At the whispered words, Sherlock’s shoulders slump in defeat. Slowly, he turns, finally daring to look up and meet John’s pleading gaze.

S: It’s not that I don’t like her. I just...

He closes his eyes and licks his lips, struggling to put his thoughts into words. The fingers holding him in place loosen even further and slide down his arm to grasp his hand. His throat bobs while he hesitates, then he unclenches his fist and allows their fingers to intertwine.

S: I don’t like seeing her with you.

John huffs out a staggered breath, face open with hopefulness and fearful disbelieve. He mirrors Sherlock’s earlier gesture by softly tugging on his hand, only this time it’s not to create distance between them, but to pull him closer.

Sherlock is caught off guard and stumbles forward, hand landing on John’s shoulder to keep his balance. He pulls it back, as if burned, apology ready on his lips.

J: Hey, it’s fine. It’s all fine, okay?

There is a new warmth and fondness in John’s voice, which I’ve never heard him use before. Sherlock blinks at him in surprise, nods and can’t seem to look away.

They stare at each other, neither of them sure how to proceed. Unexpectedly, Sherlock is the first one to move. He inches closer, emboldened by the reassurance, and lets go of John’s hand to raise his arms towards him. John is holding his breath, body motionless, while two hands curl around his shoulders as Sherlock envelopes him in a tentative embrace.

After a few seconds John dares to reciprocate. Making sure to telegraph his every move, he wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist. He is met with no resistance, so he gradually brings them closer together, until there is no space left between them. Sherlock tenses up slightly, but when John’s warmth begins to seep into him, he lets out a long breath and settles further into the hug. 

S: I don’t know how to do this. I want to, but it’s just so...

He breaks off with an annoyed grunt. John huffs out a laugh and presses a tiny peck to his shoulder.

J: Don’t worry about it. We’ll figure it out.

After that, no words are spoken. Their calm breaths and the muffled noises of London’s waking up streets are the only sounds in the room as they relax into each other.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen Sherlock smile so much. He even did the dishes without complaining and wished John a good day at work. Apart from this short burst of productivity, he spent the day lazing about the flat. No new experiments, no nothing. Just content with his own thoughts. He didn’t even change into actual clothes, just kept wearing his pyjamas from breakfast and threw on his blue dressing gown.

You should have seen Dimmock’s face when he and a couple of his men dropped by to pick up the remaining book crates. Don’t think the artfully tousled look of a relaxed Sherlock aligned with his previous impression of the usually so focused and dapper consulting detective. When Sherlock then proceeded to thank him for his work on the case and even offered up a smile, Dimmock reached his limit. Wide-eyed, he hastily bid his goodbye and stumbled out of the flat before his entire world view could crumble any further.

When Mrs. Hudson came by to bring up some freshly baked biscuits, she seemed a little weirded out by his cheerful behaviour, as well. Instead of questioning it though, she quickly took advantage of the rare occurrence and stayed for a cup of tea and a rather one-sided chat about the newest gossip. Sherlock probably didn’t listen to a single word she was saying, off in his own world, smiling and nodding from time to time.

Sherlock was still asleep when John crawled out of bed with just a couple of hours of rest under his belt, bleary eyed and groggy, to go to work. Upon his return, they headed out for one last visit to Sebastian’s office and New Scotland Yard to finally be done with the case.

When they got back, neither of them mentioned what had happened between them. There was no need for it, because it was written in every look, every small gesture and smile, before John retired early to catch up on all the sleep he had missed.

They are currently in the kitchen, having breakfast. And just like yesterday, John is being careful not to crowd Sherlock. It shows quite a lot of restrain on his part, because his eyes linger whenever he can get away with it. I think he is trying to give him time to adjust to their new closeness, which Sherlock seems to appreciate greatly.

At first, I was a little bit worried our favourite detective might freak out, once the adrenaline had faded and he has had time to think things through, and he might have, had it not been for John’s intuitive decision to take things slow. A small touch to the shoulder here, a brief hand on his arm there. Soft glances and grins, but nothing beyond that.

*sigh*

A few seconds ticked by and nothing changed. Then, almost in slow motion he started to come back to himself.

First he did the blinking thing, he often does, when his brain needs to do a restart.

Soon after, his eyes bulged out.

Then he pressed his lips together so tightly, they turned white from lack of oxygen.

A breathless noise, half snort, half giggle came next.

Finally, his shoulders started to shake.

After that he threw all pretence of dignity or composure out the window, and bent over laughing. I think it took him about ten minutes to get to a point, where he could stop long enough to blow his nose and wipe his eyes.

The reason I am telling you this? Because right now Sherlock seems as calm as an undisturbed pond on a windless day. He has been leaning against the doorframe to the flat for at least ten minutes now, waiting, or better: lying in wait. John is due to be back any minute now...Oh, there goes the front door. Right on time.

Sarah: I would have picked more sensible shoes if I had known I’d be wrestling Chinese gangsters.

John chuckles in embarrassment and scratches the back of his neck.

J: Yeah, that wasn’t very good, was it.

Sarah: Oh, no. I quite enjoyed it. Nothing better to get the heart pumping on a Wednesday evening.

Their laughter fades out into a comfortable silence, each drifting off to their own thoughts. Sarah is drumming her fingers against the kitchen table, much like John tends to do when he is contemplating something. She is still looking at the floor as she finally does speak up again.

Sarah: Honestly though, John. Why did you ask me out?

It takes him a second to reply as he chews the inside of his lips.

J: Because I wanted to.

Sarah: Yes, but why? And why now?

J: What do you mean?

Their eyes meet. There is a confused furrow to John’s brow, but Sarah doesn’t back down. Instead, she leans her elbows on the table and crosses her arms, weight shifting forward to pin John down with a firm expression.

Sarah: Okay, let me put it this way. For weeks I’ve been trying to get you to ask me out. I’ve been flirting with you from the moment you first applied for the job. Hell, one time I even told you I had nothing on and was in for a boring evening at home alone. Nothing. And with how much you talk about your flatmate, I cut my losses and stopped. Then, you spend two days sadly staring at the walls at the surgery and all of a sudden you do a one-eighty and ask me out on a date.

With a gulp John averts his gaze and leans back further in his chair. His arms are now crossed across his chest, as if he is trying to create a protective shield between himself and their topic of conversation.

J: I told you, Sherlock and I, we aren’t...There is nothing going on there. We are just friends.

When he quickly reaches out for his glass of wine and takes a long swallow from it, Sarah is watching him with a wistful smile.

Sarah: Oh, okay. Because if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was jealous.

John chokes. He barely manages to avoid spilling any of the red liquid, eyes wide as he sets the glass down. Sarah’s lips curl up in a teasing smirk as John fights to stop coughing. When he finds his breath again, there is still a raspy quality to his quiet words.

J: He’s not like that.

Sarah gives a snort, which causes him to glance over at her disbelieving face.

Sarah: Oh, please. All night he has been falling over himself to impress you. You think he spouted all that historic stuff about the circus acts for my benefit?

J: No, it’s just what he does. He likes to show off.

Sarah: Really?

J: Yes, really.

Sarah gives a hesitant nod and takes a sip from her own drink. When she looks over at John, he is twirling the wine in his glass, head bowed to avoid meeting her piercing eyes. She opens her mouth to say something more, but the ringing of the doorbell cuts her off.