Chapter Text
The light through 221b’s front windows cast a warm glow upon the sitting room whereupon John and Sherlock were spending the afternoon. The sounds of cars sloshing by, a fresh cup of tea, and warm biscuits from Mrs. Hudson completed the scene as John scrolled lazily through e-mails on his computer, his phone sitting quietly on the arm of the chair. Every moment or so he’d risk a glance at his flatmate, who’s tight-fitting, grey shirt and black trousers were giving John ideas.
It was on days such as this that John had a difficult time keeping his mind from wandering into dangerous places. They were just so comfortable together in this sitting room—perfect companions to each others' madness—John couldn't help but imagine how easy it would be to wrap his arms around Sherlock, and cuddle him close in the warmth of the flat.
That is, until one, very bored, consulting detective opened his mouth and pulled John back to reality.
“Has old age set in so quickly that he is incapable of responding?” Sherlock asked rhetorically, to no one in particular. He tugged on his curls in aggravation and pulled his red robe in annoyance. The pout he was unconsciously sporting gave John a strange, warm feeling.
“I’m sure Greg has better things to do at the moment than answer a text,” John responded with a tired sigh, trying to mollify Sherlock’s mood.
Sherlock looked back at John, his eyes narrowing and his nose raising toward the ceiling as he was want to do when John was being particularly dim, “he needs me for this case; a body was found this morning,” John considered him suspiciously: “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I heard it on the news. A body was found in a house near Clapham Road.” Sherlock sat down in a huff before adding, “Are you sure your mobile is even working?” as he jumped up again to poke John’s phone.
“Yes, actually, and if you’re so concerned then why don’t you use your own?” John countered, lowering the lid to his laptop as he prepared for a harsh retort. The plaid blanket, comfortable chair, and knit jumper which surrounded the doctor did nothing to hide his exasperation.
Sherlock turned towards the window, probably hoping to delay his answer long enough for John to give up. When he found that John was still waiting, he responded,“I...may have...in so many words...broken it,” his voice belied his perturbation. He pretended to find something very interesting on the street below.
John shook his head; he was feeling more and more like Sherlock’s guardian than friend. “You broke it? Your brand new mobile?! We just bought that phone! Sherlock, we don’t have the funds for you to go off breaking your...toys!” John was the one pulling at his hair now. “How on Earth did that--”
“Experiment, John. I needed to see if it would survive a fall--”
“So you used your own, working phone?!”
“--and continue to transmit sound as it did so! If you’d just list--”
“If YOU would just listen then we might be able to afford--”
By the grace of some deity John’s phone chirped in with a new message. Leaping with all the grace of a drunk ballerina, Sherlock flung himself at John’s mobile. His body leaned close to John’s seated form, and John found himself staring at the straining buttons of Sherlock’s shirt while he waited to hear what Greg had to say.
Sherlock's knee nudged John's accidentally. “Ah HA! You see?! I told you! Oh this is brilliant! Just as I suspected, the murderer strikes again! It’s the same one--has to be. Come along, John!” Sherlock ejaculated, spinning toward the door while replying to the text one-handedly...before tripping over his own laptop on the way, and landing face-first by the coat-rack, his massive ego doing little to cushion his fall.
John hurried over frantically, reaching to help Sherlock to his feet and assess the damage. “Sherlock! Bloody hell, are you alright?” Sherlock looked back with a hint of aggravation, before leaping back onto his feet. “This wouldn’t happen if you put your damn things away! When we get home, you’re tidying up!” John declared, following Sherlock to the door.
“Fine, yes, fine,” Sherlock mumbled back.
“You’re not even listening,” John began, “I shouldn’t have to say those things,” he continued, his voice distressed, “I’m not your moth--er.” John’s words caught in his throat as his flatmate slid off his robe to reveal the back of the earlier-mentioned, form-fitting trousers, somehow tighter than he'd remembered, before sliding on his coat. John looked away quickly, masking his face in innocence.
Even wrapped up in the excitement of the case, Sherlock caught something of what John had been thinking. “Obviously, John,” Sherlock said as per-usual to such an obvious statement, but the corner of his mouth seemed to spasm upwards for a quarter-second, before he turned back to the mobile and began down the stairs.
“Right, yes,” a rather flushed John responded, also taking his own coat and following behind, his thoughts floating off elsewhere as he joined Sherlock in a cab. Their legs briefly touched as he pulled the door shut and he felt a fluttering in his stomach, before shifting away to look out the window at the passing buildings.
He wondered at the perversion of his own mind to, simultaneously, think of himself as Sherlock’s mum, but also want to shag him. Luckily, Sherlock seemed too preoccupied with John’s phone to observe anything about John’s behavior.
John decided that it wouldn't do to have Sherlock become aware of these feelings when the analytical, “could-have-had-Irene-if-he'd-wanted-but-didn't” Sherlock obviously probably didn't return them.
Why risk what they had?
The passing buses splashed puddle-water onto John's window, shaking him from his thoughts. He could admire Sherlock from the window's reflection when the background was dark enough.
He couldn't help but notice what the humidity did to Sherlock's curls. He'd need a trim soon.
He could grip those.
His lips formed a lop-sided grin without his permission, and he caught Sherlock's eyes staring back at him in the glass—a curiously-knowing eyebrow raised in John's direction.
John gulped.
The cab stopped.