John, sneaking up behind a very thoughtful Sherlock, casually drapes his arms over his shoulders. He starts feeling over his chest, petting him, kissing his ear, ect. Anything he can think of to get Sherlock’s attention, he does.
Sherlock seems to ignore him for a few moments, fingers still steepled at his chin, before finally peeping up. But the tone he takes on isn’t a warm one. It’s cold, analytical, and entirely focused on something that obviously isn’t his flatmate. When he speaks, the octave is low, and his words dismissive: “… Please, do try to keep your distance. I am trying to think, and your hands are very distracting.”
John, being a tease and apparently not catching the seriousness in Sherlock’s tone, continues anyways. His hands continue to trail over the front of his shirt, smoothing out the fabric, and affectionately mapping out the definitions of his chest with his fingers: “Are they now? Distracting you.”
Sherlock’s silence has made a sudden comeback and he doesn’t even bother with a reply. He simply sits, utterly still, with his fingers resting against his chin. He isn’t receptive at all to the touches he’s receiving, and John feels almost like he’s hugging a statue. Only then does he get the idea. He pulls away reluctantly, and stands up straight as if ready to walk off. His voice holds a bit of disappointment as he speaks: "Right, then. Affection is bad news for brain work I suppose… sorry for interrupting.”
The silence continues for another brief moment before Sherlock realizes John’s hands are missing from him, and something about the absence, apparently, bothers him; he perks up, opens his eyes, and turns suddenly, looking aghast if not slightly offended that John had actually removed himself from his person: "Wait, what— where are you going, what are you doing?”
John pauses for a good few seconds, and then tries to bite back a bit of an intrigued, if not slightly confused grin. He looks Sherlock up and down and quirks an eyebrow before speaking up, quietly: “I’m… stopping, leaving the room? You asked me to.”
Sherlock looks bewildered, his expression feigning offense still. He glances down at a random object to his left as if looking for an answer there, then turns to John again, his eyebrows furrowing: “No, I didn’t.”
John is full on grinning now, though he looks even more confused than before, even having to fight a laugh at his lover’s sudden change in mood: “Sherlock—”
Before he can continue, he’s rudely interrupted by the detective, who has now turned his attention away again: “I was only complaining. I don’t recall asking you to stop.”
Now it’s John’s turn to be silent, bewildered. After a moment’s hesitation he quietly resumes his position behind Sherlock, and gingerly wraps his arms around him again. Sherlock’s posture softens under his hands, and his eyes close as if ready to pick up where he’d left off the first time. He waits until John has settled completely to steeple his fingers at his chin again, and mutters quietly: “Yes. Thank you.”
More silence passes between the two of them, Sherlock apparently in his mind palace, and John holding onto him for warmth. He nuzzles at his ear softly, and mumbles against it after a few quiet moments: “… I know you’re here, Sherlock. How long do you intend on sitting, pretending to be in your mind palace like this?”
With that, the detective smiles, finally. He leans his head against John’s and chuckles, keeping his fingers neatly steepled at his chin though the both of them know there’s no reason for them to stay there anymore. When his reply comes, it’s soft and simple, and he emphasizes his contentment by leaning into the warmth of the other man’s lips against his ear.
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