The start of something new!

Dedicated to Mirith Griffin, that spark, that lark who sings a thousand steamy praises to Sherlock. Thank you. READ HER WORK... please ^.^

Here is my attempt at some fluff... it would be lovely to hear what you think : )

Foreign Concept

Sherlock slid his dusty-blue eyes over towards John, alerting no other muscles. He lay on the sofa, atypically facing the window through which the white light of a dull London day permeated. The doctor was sat parallel to him, at the table, stern-faced and eyes watery from the severe light of his laptop screen.

John has excellent transduction, almost perfect visual perception. He usually complains of too much light when I read. Prefers the glow of the fire. Therefore it is supplementary that he has the radiance at such an extreme level.

Why: 1) Stain on left shirt-sleeve cuff = smudged = irritated from attempt to remove; colour, orange, specific to Annatto (E160b), a reddish-orange dye made from the seed of the achiote; occurs in: confectionary, also to heighten pigment in orange peel... relatively cheap, also, not conflicting with flavour. John does not eat sweets. Prefers chocolate. Not confectionary. No orange pith beneath newly cut nails, unlikely dye from orange skin would have stained to such extent. Ergo, another option... Ah! Slight stain at right corner of mouth: curry. Tikka. Concordant with 'boozy night out'. Unlikely = no redness underneath eyes; no paracetamol taken, no headache; no sweating. No hangover. So... date. Close shave yesterday morning, little stubble today. Concern over appearance. Hair washed. Nails, as afore-deduced, cut. Freshly ironed shirt, freshly pressed trousers. No jumper. Foreign concept. Jumper lost? Unlikely. Jumper lent to shield from North North East Wind of 13 kph, -3°C temperature last night? Likely. Thus: female acquaintance.

John glanced over at Sherlock as the detective sighed with poignant disappointment, eyes narrowed at him like a fox and face cast with intensity.

"Something the matter?"

He received no reply, blinked and then set back to his emails.

So. Bright laptop-screen light = Out late on curry date with female. Late hours don't elicit poor vision for John. Used to long days. Army. Must be exhausted, however, for luminosity to be required. Exhaustion for John Watson... fatigue... Mental Exertion. Mental Exercise. Contradiction: John capable of explicit retention, complex analysis. Well-trained Basal Ganglia... so... activity in Anterior Cingulate Gyrus- concerned with rapid emotional perception- resulted in tiredness. When... how...

John looked over at Sherlock once more and found him in a state of pure concentration, chin tilted down, eyes closed and fingers steepled. His black hair was just as tempestuous as ever, ambiguously thick and his black cotton shirt and trousers crumpled ever so slightly as he breathed as shallow as a ghost. John found himself momentarily interested in the sheer length of the man's body before, suddenly, the corner of Sherlock's eye twitched and his mouth downturned into a frown, but only for a split second before it resumed neutrality.

Intercourse. Psychosomatically-injured leg (engaging Deep Limbic System) bent in...

Sherlock emitted a monosyllabic laugh, peaking Watson's curiosity.

Missionary. Obviously. How traditional.

"Private joke, Sherlock? Hmm? Oh no, you go right ahead; laugh and berate me later for not comprehending your cosmic, cranial comedy."

Did not take jumper back. Planning ulterior-motive phone call. Desires another date. Has not told me about it. Does not want me involved. Takes this one 'seriously'. Has not kept mobile phone in accessible distance to me. Hence replacing mobile with replica bought off Aaron, street boy, in exchange for John's watch, given to him by a distant aunt and which he does not use. Phone distance equals distancing from... me? Unfamiliar guilt in self... Should initiate male banter...

Stretching, Sherlock turned onto his side and sat upright, hands holding the navy sofa cushions next to his thighs.

"So," he began, employing some joviality in his voice. "Good date?"

John exhaled sharply through his nose, went to type and then gave Sherlock an exasperated look.

"How did you know-" he paused and then assumed a wide-eyed, surrendering expression, closing his laptop and folding his arms behind it. "Never mind. Yes. It went well. Please do not ask me her name, number or address. Please do not stalk her." His voice was as calm as an elephant's stomach.

"A friend's concern, nothing more!"

"And Jerry the Cat didn't mean to drink the milk."

"Please, John, I grow bored of tidbit sayings."

"Well, I'm bored of not having one date without you wanting to psycho-analyse them! Not all women are Kelly Breilly." Sherlock gave him a quizzical look. "The one who did so happen to be an obsessive compulsive thief."

"Ahh, yes. Number twenty three."

"You keep count?"

"You don't?"

"No!"

Silence as Sherlock pursed his lips and swung his foot from side to side like a contemplative cat.

"Well... I promise I'll try to-"

"No."

"She'll have to mee-"

"She won't meet anyone because I'm only going to meet her once more anyway." With that, John pushed the laptop away from him and stood up, looking away from Sherlock, who most certainly wasn't looking away from John. He was caught by the shadow of compact muscle on one side of John's chest and his arm made visible by the sunlight underneath that white, white shirt.

"To collect your jumper." Sherlock didn't even bother to inject the slightest hint of a question into the statement, tone dazed. He was hypnotised by John but at the same time slightly put off by the fact that he hadn't realised John didn't want to continue dating whoever this woman was. Hasn't answered three silent texts since nine o'clock... He mentally flicked his intelligence.

"What?"

"You gave her your jumper," Sherlock asserted, darting his eyes upward to meet John's blueberry blues.

"No. I didn't," he replied, plainly.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side almost imperceptibly.

"I lent it to her, yes. But she doesn't have it. I'm going to get food. Anything you need?" John waited, but was met with a blank-faced Sherlock who didn't seem like he would answer for at least another five minutes. "I've got my phone on me."

Five minutes after John left, Sherlock stood up, cribbed the left over piece of toast from John's plate on the table and munched unashamedly on it as he flipped open John's mobile from his pocket, reading as he walked to John's room.

'No hard feelings about last nite, it could happen to anyone when their around a person for so long... but since your not seeing him, could I have Sherlock's number? x' From a lady called Jessica's iPhone.

Middle-class (attempting modern colloquialisms 'nite' amidst refined vernacular 'since'; 'could'). Tone likely of a graduate, not English Language and/or Literature- misspelt 'their' and 'your'... John's 'type' likely to speak well...

He came to John's room, but froze in the doorway.

On the bed was a blue jumper, tightly-knit alpaca wool, with a pale grey stripe around the middle.

Redhead.

There was a red hair stray on the shoulder of the jumper. The jumper Sherlock had nonchalantly bought John a week ago, for Christmas. Bought here can be defined as finding it, buying it and secretly smuggling- silently stashing- it in one of John's drawers. John had found it on Boxing Day and...

Hasn't stopped wearing it...

Sherlock swallowed, closed the phone just as it glowed with another text:-

'YOU CALLED OUT HIS NAME? Jeeeeeeeesus, John. What are you gonna do now?' From Celie.