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John was stretching up to a high shelf when he found out. His hand, slightly damp from the washing up, warm from the water, pressed against the side of Sherlock’s waist as he steadied himself. Why the great git had to stand exactly in that spot while carving up...whatever that was, John didn’t know but he’d asked him to move and was told it was ‘imperative he stay still’, so John left it alone.
Reaching for the shelf, hand resting against his flatmate, John stretched to put the clean mug he was holding back into the cupboard above Sherlock’s head. The angle meant he was leaning across Sherlock’s front, and at the last minute his hand slid downwards to counter the over extension of his short frame. Immediately, Sherlock squirmed. John had lightened his grip automatically, obviously not wanting to press into Sherlock’s flesh or grip him any tighter than he had to, he’d barely touched him really.
“What the hell, Sherlock?” John said, wobbling slightly where Sherlock’s movement had set him off balance. It was a close thing but John managed to place the mug and prevent himself from falling over.
Sherlock didn’t respond. Tipped his head slightly as if ignoring him and continued whatever god forsaken thing he was doing to whatever disgusting body part he had in his hands.
“Seriously Sherlock, I know you’re against the whole touching thing but I was kind of using you for balance.”
“And consequently, irritating me.” Sherlock said, not meaning his gaze.
“This is irritating to you?” John said, placing his hand on Sherlock’s side, “It was only…” John flexed his fingers slightly and drew them down Sherlock’s waist to just above his hip. Again, Sherlock squirmed.
His hips wriggled and he pulled away from John’s grip. The crease between his brows deepened and he seemed mad at himself for being unable to control his reaction.
“Oh,” John said with a laugh, “You’re ticklish.”
“I most certainly am not, John. Take your inane premises somewhere else would you, this is important.”
John’s grin was wicked. If Sherlock had been facing him he might have been prepared for the onslaught but as it was, he was caught totally unawares.
John’s fingers, strong from the battlefield, from holding wounds together, deft from stitches, from holding closed flesh on a regular basis, were an absolute menace when applied with such precision. He didn’t start lightly or in less sensitive zones, his practical and useful fingers went in at the exact spot on Sherlock’s ribs that they meant to.
Sherlock cried out. It was high pitched, almost a yelp of anguish, coming out all at once in a single breath. His body seemed to convulsed as John’s fingers undulated across his skin. They were digging into the muscles, not pressing hard enough to hurt, just firm enough to make Sherlock’s whole body wriggle in an ungraceful fashion.
“John--John stop. What are you--Get off me!”
Sherlock’s head whipped around, catching the mischievous glint in John’s eyes. The doctor moved, slipping his hands up below Sherlock’s and into the crease of his underarm. Catching the flesh at the top of his torso John restarted his attack. Sherlock flung his arms inwards, trapping John’s fingers against him. The grip wasn’t solid, there was enough give that John could continue to move his fingers just enough to cause the sensation to continue.
Sherlock twisted, flipping around so that John’s left hand slipped from under his arm and his back was facing John.
“Stop it. I demand that you cease and desist.”
John laughed, launching himself at Sherlock’s back and toppling them to the floor. “Not a chance!”
They clattered to the lino. Sherlock struggling to brace himself on his hands so his face didn’t connect with the hard surface and John, falling with the momentum, laying flat across Sherlock’s back.
They both had the breath knocked out of them as they made contact with the floor.
“Ugh!” John said, the noise forcing its way from his throat.
“Not your best idea,” said Sherlock his face buried in his forearm where it was bent at an angle.
“Perhaps not.” John pushed himself off of Sherlock, rolled so he was laying on his back next to him. “I win though.”
“Win what?”
John smiled. “Tickle fight.”
“There was a contest?”
“Yeah,” John said pushing an arm up and cushioning his hand behind his head, they didn’t seem to be moving anytime soon, “You know, like when you’re a kid.”
Sherlock was silent.
“Didn’t you and Mycroft used to play fight?”
Sherlock rotated his neck so he was facing John. “My relationship with my brother when we were children was pretty much the same as it is now.” He paused and considered. “But with less surveillance equipment.”
“Oh.”
They were quiet for a few moments. Not precisely comfortable on the floor, but neither moving from where they were pressed up against each other.
“You said it was a competition.”
“Mmm?”
“The ‘tickle fight’” Sherlock clarified.
“Oh, yeah. It was, and I won.”
“Seemed very one sided.” Sherlock continued.
“It was. You’re not very good, are you?” John moved so his other arm was drawn up behind his head, interlinking his fingers to cradle the back of his skull.
“A competition would presume both parties got a turn.”
“Well, yes… I suppose so.”
John looked up. Sherlock had always been quick, his ability to shift his long limbs into action at the drop of a hat had always been impressive. Which was why John didn’t have a chance to move his hands out from beneath his head as Sherlock shifted. Quick as a flash, the detective pounced.
In the end, Sherlock won the next round. John declared it cheating, Sherlock countered that John had acted in much the same manner and that war was never fair. Each one point up, they would continue the battle with frequency. Each taking the opportunity when the other was distracted or doing something that needed to be brought to a close, and quick. Neither of them can remember who exactly is winning overall, but then, they were never keeping track.