For the prompt: John and Sherlock never had these feelings before, but something seems to be happening between them… Any rating!
for rflaum (whose art makes me question my existence!) in the johnlockchallenges august-september gift exchange. prompt is above. i apologize for the extreme tardiness. this is, however, only part one. apologies also for the formatting issues. it was done over the course of a few weeks on an ipad in class. so.
also, i'll be posting this somewhere formal when i get the chance. i've been swamped recently, so please be understanding.
Is that...? Is that Irene's voice?
John stepped through the doorway of 221B. He could swear he heard...
"Of course I'd put it in my mouth, darling."
Oh. It was. Was this really happening?
Sherlock's typical hum came rumbling out of his chest. John couldn't tell if it was his normal sound of indifference, or if he had just walked in on something more.
"Anything for you." The velvety voice came from the other side of the screen.
John walked silently into the kitchen. He was not about to disturb whatever was happening in the living room. As he stood behind the counter, he spied a bit on what Sherlock was doing. His laptop was on his lap and his fingers were steepled under his chin; he was talking to his computer. But that was definitely Irene's voice. There was no mistaking that.
"I'll require your assistance as soon as possible." The fingers of his left hand trailed along his thigh seductively and the ones on his right stayed at his mouth. His index finger applied just the right amount of pressure on his lower lip to show John how luscious it was.
John didn't even know he was staring.
Sherlock shot a quick and subtle smirk into the camera and shut his laptop. He stood abruptly and turned toward the mantle, picking up the skull and examining it purposefully.
"Tea?" Came the nervous question from the kitchen.
Sherlock spun on his heel and looked at John puzzlingly, as if he hadn't even noticed John walked in. "Yes." He purred, and John immediately turned and started the stove, placing the kettle under the faucet and patiently waiting for it to fill. When he turned to place it on the burner, he tried to ignore the feeling that Sherlock was approaching. He hoped with all his heart that he couldn't actually feel the breath on the back of his neck; that it was all in his head. Then he saw the long, elegant arm reach around him slowly, and his breath caught in his throat. That is, until he saw that all the detective was doing was turning the stove on. John had turned on the wrong burner in all his distraction.
"Thank you." Sherlock breathed into John's ear before turning and heading back into the living room, picking up his violin, and playing a simple, playful tune.
John let out a deep breath. What was going on with Sherlock today?
Better yet, what was going on with him today?
John went out not long after they had their tea to pick up dinner. He shuffled into the flat with a bag of indian food which he almost dropped when he saw Sherlock laying peacefully on the couch wrapped in nothing but a sheet.
Sherlock. On the couch. In a sheet. Nothing but the sheet. Was he even wearing pants? John shook off the thought and was unpacking the bag when he heard muffled movement coming from the living room. "Sherlock?" He wondered aloud.
"John," the detective mumbled in reply, "I need..."
"Sherlock? Are you okay?" John walked quickly and knelt by Sherlock's side. He rested his hand tenderly on Sherlock's arm. The tone he used had been alarming, to say the least. Sherlock leaned into John's touch and sighed. His curls were in a halo above his head and his eyes were closed. He looked so serene, except for the little crease just above his brow which hinted at his unrest.
"I need you..." The statement came out in one breath and then he turned over to his other side, burrowing into the blankets and slipping back into his lull of sleep.
John backed away as slowly and silently as possible. The last thing he needed was Sherlock waking up and asking why he was so uncomfortable. He would pull John apart with his eyes, figure out exactly what was happening in a matter of seconds and take control of the situation in his own horrible, mortifying way that John just couldn't handle.
"John." The baritone came from behind him. John stopped cold.
"Sherlock? You're awake?"
"Obvious. Is there dinner?"
"Yeah, I got us Indian tonight."
And so John stumbled into the kitchen hoping he could continue to avoid the awkward topic that was Sherlock lately, even though it was on the forefront of his mind.
They got a call the next morning from Lestrade saying there was a case he needed help with.
"Of course there is. There always is," came Sherlock's reply as soon as he answered his mobile. John knew then to grab his coat, and they were off into the city.
Lestrade greeted them quickly and rushed them over to the body. Sherlock bent over it, examining closely every last detail and returning to a standing position next to John. He pulled out his phone and looked something up quickly while John shared a brief smile with Lestrade, who shot Sherlock a withering look. Sherlock shot a sideways glance at John while he wasn't looking and rattled of a vague description of what happened to Lestrade.
"That's it?" The DI's face was full of disbelief.
"The evidence is not very..." He glanced at John again, who stared back with interest and a furrowed brow. "It's not entirely conclusive." He turned swiftly, his coat whipping through the air behind him, and sauntered off.
"Did he just say-?" Lestrade looked at John.
"I think he did. I've no idea what's been wrong with him lately..." Or with me, his mind chimed in. There had been a weird tension between them ever since John walked in on the video chat with Irene, and John wasn't exactly sure whether to confront it or leave it be. The chances of Sherlock bringing it up and wanting to talk about it were slim to none, which basically left the job up to John.
"That's the thing, though. He's got nothing but this on right now.
