Chapter Text
It was a puzzling case. Sherlock was enjoying himself. He had been thinking about the foot print, the phone call, the look on the husband's face. Rearranging and studying the pieces in his mind, comparing them to the thousands of other details, seeing what fit where. Fascinating. Every now and then he caught a glimpse of John at the edge of his vision. He was reading, going out, coming in, writing his blog. Occasionally Sherlock made a remark, or explained a point he was weighing. John answered, or didn’t.
"Aha!" Finally he saw it. He jumped up, grabbed his coat. The pieces were in order. They would need to take a look at that flower pot on the back step.
"Let's go, John!" But John was out. What had he said? Pub? No, it was barely afternoon. Groceries? Possibly. Sherlock didn't keep track of the contents of their cupboards. A walk? Maybe. It was a lovely day. What did it matter, John’s whereabouts were of no consequence. Sherlock hurried out.
It was just as he had deduced. There was a tiny spec of something dark at the bottom of the pot and another one on the stone paving in the middle of the yard. Blood. He texted Lestrade. "Brother-in-law. Forensics for the flower pot and its previous location (middle of the yard). SH"
The case had been fun. Besides having been mentally invigorating, he had managed to gather more material for his footprint study: the brother-in-law had a stiff neck on his right side, the result of a desk job, which could be seen in the impression of his step. Excellent. It confirmed Sherlock's hypothesis. There remained only the question of tenosynovitis’ exact effect. He had inconclusive, partially contradicting samples of that. All depended of course on the affected joint…
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Sherlock came home to find John dozed off on the sofa after a shower, his dressing gown half-open. As John didn't usually appear in any state of undress around the flat, he had to be knackered; and not expecting Sherlock back yet. It must have been last night they had been chased after in north of London. The night before there had of course been the robbery. No wonder the man was tired.
John’s bare chest rose in a calm, even rhythm. He was so vulnerable, unprotected as he lay there. It felt a violation even to look at him. Sherlock was surprised to notice in himself a sudden urge to caress John’s hair. He shrugged it off and went to put the kettle on instead.
The sound of water coming to boil woke John up. He pulled the gown tighter around himself, curled more comfortably against the cushions.
"Make me a cuppa too, will you?" His voice filled with slumber.
Sherlock took his time. Miraculously even found a clean cup. Let the pot brew before filling two mugs. Milk and sugar for John.
As he took them over, John didn’t get up, but made just enough room for Sherlock to squeeze in. He sat down, John sleepily snuggling his head against Sherlock. Without warning all the nerve endings on Sherlock’s thigh, where John’s head touched, heated up – as if that was the only place on his body that could feel, and absolutely had to feel. The unexpected, violently intense sensation made Sherlock shiver involuntarily and almost drop the steaming mugs.
Although half-asleep and not known for his powers of observation, even John couldn’t miss the reaction. It set his pulse raising. He suddenly felt his scalp as if on fire against Sherlock. He froze, unable to move, and wide awake now. He could feel Sherlock nervous and, yes, excited, too. John focused on the touch between the top of his head and Sherlock's leg. Trying to touch more, trying to understand more. But there’s only so much scalp and hair can do. Sherlock would be bound to notice his state. Yet he continued to keep his eyes closed and feigned sleep. No, that wouldn't fool anybody. Least of all Sherlock. Almost an insult to pretend it would.
John sat up yawning in attempt at nonchalance. He took the cup Sherlock was offering. Their hands brushed, setting off another trickle of fireworks on their skins. He didn’t dare look at Sherlock, sure he was already betraying too much. What was it exactly? He didn’t know, but Sherlock would. Whatever it was, he knew he wasn’t ready for it. John cleared his throat.
"Cracked it, did you?"
For once Sherlock needed a minute to catch up, distracted by the warmth still lingering on his thigh.
"Yes. Yes, I did. 'Twas the brother-in-law. Lestrade'll do the actual catching, I imagine."
John whistled quietly.
"So it was the old man's business the murderer was after. Well, well."
John's chatter was forced. Sherlock got up, only realising as he sat down opposite, that he had moved to get a better look at John. He needed to study John. The man actually seemed to blush under his gaze.
There were thin, pale hairs on his chest. Sherlock caught himself wondering whether they went all the way down or if there was bare skin somewhere before the pubic hairs curled upwards. Interesting. He was actually physically attracted. Very much so. The imprint of John’s head still as if burning on his thigh. That, of course, was impossible as the contact was long gone. Definitely, he wanted John. He wasn’t sure what that even entailed.
John felt exposed, naked under Sherlock’s scrutiny. But instead of tugging the dressing gown more firmly around himself, he let it hang loose, even opening it a bit more while lifting the mug to his lips. What on earth was he doing? Was he actually flirting with Sherlock? His cheeks were flushed. Shit. Calm down. You’re not fifteen anymore, and he isn’t Mary from next door.
“Glad that’s solved now. There are a couple of comments on the blog that might turn out to be interesting.” Sherlock couldn’t care less about cases now. Here was a question much more acute and intriguing.
They could hear the front door open. Muffled noises downstairs followed by familiar footsteps. Lestrade. John got up as if stung. He felt suddenly coming to his senses and dashed upstairs to get dressed.
“Hello, hello,” Lestrade greeted cheerfully as he entered without knocking. Something was off. Sherlock seemed even weirder than usual, if that was possible. Staring in front of himself with a look of surprise on his face. Odd. Well, the chap was not normal.
“Thanks for the message, old boy. Definitely looks like blood. We’ll have to wait for the test results of course, but if I understood anything about your bouncing about the other day, it would seem to fit your theory.”
Bouncing about indeed. Sherlock snorted and turned to Lestrade.
“Right,” Lestrade felt uncommonly nervous under his stare, “just came to remind you to pop over at the station tomorrow, so we’ll get the papers in order.” He knew that, that wasn’t going to happen just by telling Sherlock. “Where’s John?”
John, fully clothed, came in.
“Talk of the devil, there you are. Just reminding Sherlock of his civic duties in this case. You’ll come over tomorrow?”
“Yes, yes. Sure.” John was left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. He had been heading for the sofa, but something had made him stop. For Pete’s sake. A man has the right to sit on his own damn sofa. He proceeded to do so. Sherlock glimpsed him briefly, but thankfully focused on Lestrade after that.
There was something wrong with John too. He’d taken his most tense and rigid military pose on his own sofa. Boy, the air was thick with something, that much could Lestrade tell.
Those two made one strange couple. Not that Lestrade believed the gossip. He was rather sure John was straight and, in any case, Sherlock was only interested in his work. But something was going on here. Well, maybe John had refused to cook dinner. He almost chuckled aloud at his own wit.
“We’ll be there. Anything else?” Sherlock inquired eager to get rid of Lestrade. As the DI shook his head and turned to leave, John jumped up. He clearly couldn’t just sit still tonight. Sherlock was frustrated.
“How ‘bout a pint round the corner? I’m buying,” John offered. Sherlock almost growled with annoyance. He wanted to observe John. He needed to get data. The hurry with which John disappeared through the door told him that maybe for once John had actually been following his train of thought.