Improbabilities

Chapter 1: Recognition

It was early morning by the time Sherlock realized just how bored he truly was. He hadn't slept the entire night, which wasn't out of character exactly if he had been working on a case but, he hadn't been for about a week now. Playing his violin and conducting inconclusive experiments involving heads, intestines, and varying chemicals were all that seemed to keep Sherlock out of his own head. It was hardly five o'clock when he simply gave up, declaring there was simply nothing left for him to do. Sherlock decided to unlock John's "private" army pistol once again, aiming for the familiar smile on the wall, firing.

Much time hadn't passed before John's familiar face crept into the gun range, seemingly disguised as his own living room.

"Sherlock..." John began, noticing the all-too-familiar weapon in his best friend's hand.

"I. Am. BORED!" Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"That doesn't mean you have the right t-"John's voice trailed off when he noticed Sherlock hadn't been listening to a single word. Although for that, John was partially grateful. He had once again awoken with an erection, having no memory of the dreams he'd experienced the night before. Hiding behind today's jumper and jeans, was John's cock practically begging for attention. When John seemed he couldn't put it off any longer, he walked calmly to the bathroom, (well, as calmly as he could) locking the door behind him. He was sure his absence would go unnoticed.

He was wrong.

Sherlock glanced at his best friend, as he seemingly wobbled to the bathroom. He would have continued on with his boredom, had he not heard the small *click* of the lock as his flatmate disappeared. Sherlock deduced quickly that John would only lock the door if he was planning on doing something particularly embarrassing he didn't want Sherlock to know about. Knowing this, Sherlock subtly raised from the leather sofa, creeping steadily toward the bathroom.

"Nothing interesting," Sherlock thought to himself, feeling the dreaded boredom making room once again in his mind. Just has Sherlock turned to walk away, he heard a quite odd hum rising above the noise of the shower. However odd, it gave him a feeling at the pit of his stomach that he didn't quite understand. Before long, he heard shower curtains ruffling, along with various toiletries falling to the tile floor. The feeling in his stomach intensified, though it seemed to be making its way down Sherlock's body. Suddenly familiar with the feeling, Sherlock froze. It had been a while since Sherlock had allowed himself to feel this way. Hell- it had been a while since he'd felt this way under any conditions. Soon, Sherlock could hear stifled moans, grunts, and cries of pleasure and he couldn't help but allow himself to let a small moan escape from his clenching teeth. He stood there for a while, pants growing tighter, until he heard the stream of the shower stop suddenly. Snapping back to reality, Sherlock ran quickly, yet somehow gracefully, to his bedroom, locking the door and plopping face up on his bed.

He couldn't believe what he'd just done. He may be a sociopath but, voyeurism was among the few things he'd never even imagined himself participating in, much less enjoying. Sherlock had for once in at least a decade, allowed his body to act, rejecting the logic of his mind. It was at that moment that he swore to never let it happen again.

Exactly three hours eleven minutes and seven seconds later Sherlock noted, he received a phone call from Detective Inspector Lestrade, saving him from the war of his own thoughts. Sherlock walked to the sitting room, finding John sipping tea and reading the newspaper. Sherlock noticed John was wearing a jumper that he was especially fond of, an observation he was sure he would have ignored had it not been for what happened earlier in the day.

"We're leaving, John. Get your coat." Sherlock said, as bluntly he could. (He couldn't have John being suspicious.) John fumbled around, gulping the remainder of his tea as he threw on his coat, chasing his flatmate out of the door.

"I'm guessing that was Lestrade then." John observed, ducking into the cab.

Sherlock gave John one of his famous "isn't that obvious, you twit" glares. A look that John knew all to well. John turned away embarrassed as silence fell upon the cab.

When the two men arrived at New Scotland Yard, Sherlock was all business, nearly obnoxious in his level of excitement, which was usual. Detective Donovan reluctantly lead them to a conference room where Lestrade had been rounding up evidence.

"It appears to be a double homicide," Lestrade began. "But learning from my many years working with Sherlock, I expect that there's something fishy going on here."

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock who seemed to be anything but focused, looking through him rather than at him. Assuming Sherlock was just in deep though, he went on.

Sherlock however had not been listening at all. All he could seem to think about was John. His flatmate. His colleague. His best friend. The man standing bloody two feet away from him. His inability to focus frustrated him, considering how intent on a new case he was not five minutes ago. Sherlock seemed to be observing all the wrong things. He thought about how nice John looked in his jumper, how he distinctly smelled of a scent Sherlock knew simply as John. Sherlock quickly regained his focus when he noticed Detective Lestrade and Donovan walking towards the door. It seems an hour had already passed. Sherlock thought quickly of the recent conversation he hadn't been paying attention to and stated without hesitation, "To the crime scene," a fake and nervous smile hinted on his face.

On the way to the scene, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade had stopped at Angelo's for a quick bite. (Or in Sherlock's case, a glass of water.) Had it been any case prior to this once, Sherlock would have been outraged at the thought of making a stop anywhere for anything, especially something as trivial as eating. However, during this case, Sherlock was glad for the chance to simply observe John in his most relaxed state. He watched the man closely as he chewed, smiled, and laughed; licking his lips occasionally to clean any jelly filling that could have clung to his skin. "His smooth, surprisingly soft looking skin." Sherlock thought to himself, quickly catching himself staring like one of the love-struck teenagers from ridiculous sitcoms John forced him to watch. After what seemed like days had passed, the two men opposite of Sherlock stood, gathering their things. Sherlock walked behind them, wordlessly.

When the men finally arrived at the crime scene, everyone else had already left. The scene was across town and, John and Lestrade seemed to enjoy taking the long route. It was already getting dark outside, as Lestrade used a small flashlight to maneuver around in the fire-destroyed factory building. When Sherlock was introduced to the strategically placed "John Doe's," he immediately understood what had happened. None the less, he allowed the DI to continue his explanation, giving him the time to, once again, steal glances at Dr. John Watson. "It doesn't make sense," Sherlock admitted to himself. "I'm a sociopath. We're incapable of… feeling…" Sherlock thought back to the arousal he'd felt as he listened through closed doors while John pleased himself. John must have seen something in Sherlock, as when he locked eyes with his flatmate, he immediately shifted uncomfortably. The intensity of such a glare giving him a strange but, not unpleasant feeling. Sherlock noticed his shifting automatically, the already limited amount of rose in his cheeks leaving within a few milliseconds.

"If I may," Sherlock asked rhetorically, holding his hand up, signaling to Lestrade that it was time for him to stop talking. Sherlock began explaining that the two men lying dead before him were not victims of a double-homicide but, a double-suicide. "An idiotic act of love," Sherlock declared, resisting the urge to look to John. He could feel the disparity on his face, thinking of how he'd feel if John had ever thought of taking his own life, much less for Sarah or any of his love interests. The insisting silence in the factory hinted that John and Lestrade were waiting for a definition on how he could know such a thing, based on the bodies before him. "They're wearing rings. Wedding rings as it seems. Not expensive. Sentimental or something..." Sherlock trailed off. He's never understood emotions, whether his or anyone else's. "The rice stuck in the soles of their shoes suggests that we're standing in the final stage of their ceremony. Though the fire makes it seem like a murderer covering his tracks, I'm nearly positive the fire was a mere coincidence, aided by the fact that the building is nearly two hundred years old and, the place reeks of a gas leak, though not any gas recommended for arson." Sherlock walked toward the door the men had come in, ready to leave it all behind him like most simplistic cases.

"Stunning," was all the John could manage to push from his lips, nodding at Lestrade after he began jogging after his other-worldly companion. Hearing this, behind his newly raised collar, the corners of Sherlock's lips tightened, rising only slightly.

The ride back to Baker Street was nearly as quiet as the one to Scotland Yard; it was exceptionally more so. The two men walked into their home, John quickly walking to the kitchen, filling the kettle. The men got comfortable, as was usual in the cozy space they knew so well. Only this time, Sherlock watched John more closely, as his t-shirt/short combination provided plenty of wiggle room for the surplus amount of Sherlock's imagination. The two sat in silence, watching one of John's favorite shows. Usually, Sherlock would be complaining, fairly loudly, about the simplicity of it's' plot but instead, Sherlock was drawn to John's determined facial expression. What Sherlock had felt earlier was physical attraction and curiosity but now, he seemed to be genuinely interested in John. His mind, how he thought, how he felt… Sherlock was sure he was going mad.

Not an hour later, John had started a light snore. Sherlock was incredibly tempted to sneak to John's chair to place an innocent, chaste kiss on his lips. "Bad. Illogical. Unreasonable. Bad," he chanted to himself in the dimly lit room. Instead, Sherlock covered his… friend… with a blanket he felt heavy enough to keep him warm, turned off the telly, and walked in a way that could only be described as trekking, to his room. He plopped down on his bed, similar to the way he had early morning. "What is happening to me?" was the thought that plagued his mind for the remainder of the night.