Written for Good Old James, a man who had a dream...
I make no apologies. But I will warn you again - this isn't my usual style/ content. There is a bit of sexytimes. Who am I kidding, there is quite a lot of sexytimes. I wouldn't want you to get any surprises, nasty or not. If it ain't your thing, don't read it.
DISCLAIMER: I own absolutely nothing. I make absolutely nothing from writing this nonsense.
It is getting to be a problem.
Sherlock Holmes is fine with problems. More than fine. Problems are his job. More than his job. Problems are his life.
His current seemingly unsolvable problem is John. John himself is not the problem. In fact, he is far from it. He is the answer to many: someone to live with, someone to work with, someone to make him tea and ensure he eats, someone to correct his more unsociable tendencies, someone to care (more or less).
The problem is more of Sherlock's own reactions to John's presence. His distraction. His obsession.
He can smell John on entering a room. Before he can detect perfume, explosives, bleach, concealed anticipatory assailants. In the split second his brain takes to process the information supplied by his olfactory receptors, it always investigates the possibility of the presence of John. And when he is there in front of him, sometimes Sherlock has to remind himself it is not socially acceptable to smell someone; to lean in, running the tip of your nose through the thick hair at the base of their skull to disturb and coax the scent up into your nostrils. The musky pine of cologne, the bitter tang of digested and absorbed tannins seeping through, all curled and swirled with sweet sweat and coconut shampoo.
He can hear John. At crime scenes asking questions, breathing over Sherlock's shoulder to observe, talking while he is trying to think. In the flat, humming while he dresses, clinking while he makes tea, the painfully slow clicking of his fingers on the laptop keyboard. In the darkness of night, his softest voice haunting the black of Sherlock's early dreams. The smooth timbre of air vibrating through his vocal chords, the rhythmic echo of his footsteps (always determined, still slightly favouring one side).
He can see the signs of John everywhere. His lifeless jumper strewn carelessly across the back of his chair, the supposedly humorous mug beside the sink, John's broad brogues tumbled with his slender Italian leather ankle boots under the coat stand. John is something he can stare at for hours, just watching the delicate shift of his skin as he breathes.
And therein lies the predicament. Time that should be spent mentally investigating a quandary is spent elsewhere. Instead of retreating to his mind palace to search out and process details of a case, calculate possibilities; Sherlock finds himself in the Room of John, searching out memories of John's nostrils flaring as he inhales the steam from his freshly brewed morning tea, or calculating the precise angle of the cocking of his head at a certain enquiry.
And it is bloody ridiculous.
John, bless him, for the most part seems oblivious. In the beginning of their partnership he occasionally he gave Sherlock a curious look when he moved a bit too close, or stared a little too long, protested at an abrupt graze of skin or an inquisitive sniff of his woollen sleeve. But it soon faded. He became accustomed to the breaching of his personal space and the use of his belongings and the long studying gazes.
There is one solution – he could ask John to leave.
No, that's inconceivable. Surely it would even worse with him gone, mourning the loss, unable to fulfil his desire to immediately smell or hear or touch... There is an odd ache in his chest at the barest thought of it.
There are two solutions – John leaves (inconceivable) or he learns to get past it.
No, that's impossible; it's been over a year already. 396 days to be precise. 9,496 hours. 569,785 minutes. He could work out the seconds, but that would be obsessive. Wouldn't it? So, no, learning would appear impossible.
There are three solutions – John leaves (still inconceivable); he learns to get past it (still impossible); or he tells him.
But no, that would be humiliating. How on Earth could that be phrased? Not even to be socially acceptable, he doesn't bother worrying about that for John, but he would struggle even to find a way to put it to him. And what would he even be trying to say? He would likely turn into a stuttering moron, struggling for words, muddling his syllables into a constant stream of burbling, and that would be unthinkable. So no, too humiliating.
There are four– now this is turning into the Spanish Inquisition...
Why does he even have this reference? Surely that should have been deleted long ago; there is no use in– Oh... another thing from the Room of John. A memory, only slightly faded by tiredness (fifty hours and eighteen minutes of solid consciousness) and the liberal application of a good red wine (Jean-Luc Colombo Cornas Terres Brulees, vintage 2008, aired for thirty-five minutes and served at approximately 18⁰). Monty Python, or one of them. The most ridiculous, nonsensical screenplay ever created, but, even by Sherlock's standards, witty and amusing in parts. A shared evening. Sherlock's long limbs stretched across the sofa, bare feet tucked under a throw cushion; John on the floor, leaning back against the front of the couch. At several points in the screenplay Sherlock had become absolutely lost. He was unsure whether it was a byproduct of the chaotic writing, or his deplorable habit of losing attention, distracted by John's unguarded laughter and the sensation of his hair brushing against the bare skin of Sherlock's forearm as he tipped his head back in mirth. Possibly both.
"Staring." In the present, the gently chiding tone cuts into his somewhat one-track ponderings.
Oh, yes, so he is. John is looking at him, lowering his newspaper. The action is unnecessary as he is side on across the room anyway and perfectly in view, even with the tabloid up in front of his face.
"What's the matter now?"
This is it; he has to say something. Never has a more perfect opportunity presented itself. He has his full attention, and it was not even partially split by annoyance or exhaustion.
"John..." John, I am obsessed with you... No.
"Yes?" His tone is serious. He has understood the depth of Sherlock's voice.
"John, I... I..." I can't stop watching you, smelling you, wanting you... No.
"You?"
"It's..." It's impossible to imagine life without you...
"Just say it, Sherlock," John folds his newspaper and puts it carefully on the table beside him. He is looking intently at his flatmate now, obviously intending to hear him out, anticipating some soul-deep confession. "I'm here to listen to anything you need to say."
"I need to..." Consume you. I need to absorb every atom of your being and blend it with my own. I am incomplete without you. I crave you with every pore and cell of my body and mind. No. It is not something he can put into words. He is not even sure John would understand if he could.
"Sherlock?" There is a sweet uplifting lilt at the end of John's tone. Hope, perhaps?
He watches the expressions play across the face in front of him, analysing and naming them as he goes. Confusion, curiosity, hope, denial, self-criticism, frustration. He needs to say something and he needs to say it now, before John loses the moment and slips back into casual indifference.
"John. Can I..." Can I...Actually he hadn't even had anything planned to say then.
"Yes." Not an enquiry, or an encouragement; just an answer to the question he knows is coming.
John's cheeks round in a smile. Almost triumphant. He dips forwards in his chair, leaning towards him. Sherlock observes, fascinated as the minute dips in his skin, old scars, marked pores, uneven flesh, stretch and curve with his emotion. He can almost taste the texture on his tongue. He wants to.
"Can I lick your face?" Shit. That wasn't what he'd meant to say.
"What the–" John blows out, grabbing his paper, flapping it open and disappearing behind it. "I'm not even... I don't... Pfft."
As I always say, I do love a review...