justanexarmydoctor:

Yeah, well, I didn’t,” John retorts softly, stormy blue eyes taking in every inch of Sherlock, staring- even frowning when the consulting detective looks away. There’s a light tint of pink on his neck, the ex-army doctor notices, and he can’t help but feel a little smug. But that only lasts for a second, because then the large male is standing up and thanking him for his tea and he looks anxious and oh. Oh, the smugness returns. John tries to hide the upward curl of his lips by looking down to the papers, straightening the ones that were put into a disarray by Sherlock’s sudden movement. 

“You’re welcome,” he replies easily, and he finds it odd that there’s a warmness in his chest from such a simple thing as a thank you. 

When the taller’s leg brushes his own, his heart trips over itself inside his chest and John swallows heavily and keeps his gaze glued to the various objects cluttering the table. “You don’t have to go, you know. We could watch the tele or something. Normal things that normal flatmates do. If you want,” and he’s trying not to sound so hopeful, really, and he’s honestly curious as much as terrified about what would happen if they remain in the same room any longer than this. It’s a strange feeling, but it brings him excitement. And damn it, isn’t that what he craves?

Normal things that normal flatmates do – Sherlock almost quirks his lip in amusement, but schools his expression. When have they ever been normal? If he hadn’t read dictionaries when he was younger, he’d almost say that he doesn’t know the definition of normal, but, of course he does.

Blood rushes through his veins, and Sherlock knows that if he stays he might do something he regrets. He’s the ideal reasoned, and by his own deductions, he knows that the tense but somewhat friendly relationship that he’s built up with his partner might, or rather, would be irreversibly damaged if he were to let himself do what he wishes. So, as usual, he straightens his jacket, swallows down any cue of emotion, and turns to stare at Watson blankly.

He hopes his eyes give nothing away, but Sherlock’s never thought so much about hiding things from the other man, things that matter, so maybe they do. It doesn’t change anything anyway, he’ll just pretend it’s leftover emotion from something he’s read in the paper. It’s plausible.

“You don’t like the television,” Sherlock says quietly, and a lot less confidently than he should have. But he knows it’s true. What he doesn’t know is why John suggested it. And he doesn’t know why he’s even considering it. Not with his insides bunching like this. Not when he hasn’t got total control. Not now. 

(Source: on-hiatus-rn, via empatheticminds)

justanexarmydoctor:

He’s too busy examining the amazing details of his teacup to notice Sherlock reaching for him until the other man’s finger meet his skin. He doesn’t jump, thank God, but his eyes do widen as they turn back to the detective, to take in the odd expression of contemplation and.. confusion lurking underneath those pale blue eyes. “Are you alright, John?” Holmes is asking as he makes a path with his fingertips over John’s face. “No fever,” Sherlock had concluded as he broke the contact, and the former soldier thinks that maybe he should check again, because he certainly feels feverish.

The larger man’s gaze keeps roaming over his face, as if he were cataloging particularly interesting details, and John feels just the slightest bit unnerved. They’re looking at each other for a long while, until Sherlock seems to come to a conclusion about something because now he’s sitting back and looking away. John replies without thinking, lips turning upwards in a small smile. “Maybe just a little true.” And he thinks that maybe the rest of this crazy, weird evening will go by normally. But then Sherlock is asking him why he’s so flustered, and then he actually apologized as if he knew the reason without John even having to say it. John coughs then, gets himself under control and takes another sip of his tea. “I was going to say I have no idea. No need to apologize,” and it really is half of the truth.

“If you say so,” The words are a little muttered as they spill from his lips, but at least they’re not garbled, like every thought in his head right now. “Generally, one has an idea about their own bodily functions,” Sherlock turns away, eyes downcast. Really, he’s being a hypocrite, because the light flush on his neck is quite uncomprihensable to him, and it’s more than a little worrying. 

“Thankyou for the tea,” The taller man stands up hastily, stretching his legs and almost scattering the pages which he’s just placed into a pile. It’s foolish, and he feels like he’s somewhat making a spectacle of himself but he really can’t help it. Watson - the other male doesn’t even know what he’s doing to him. And if Sherlock has his way, that fact will remain so, for he has no interest in broadcasting his sudden - or rather, not so sudden, perhaps ‘festering’ is a better word, It adequately describles the clench and the shame he feels at lowering himself to emotion, feelings.

He can’t let himself feel. His reputation decrees him heartless, and for that alone, he must remain so. Even if it beats harder, faster, even if it stutters as his leg brushes Watson, it doesn’t matter. Because his heart isn’t truly there, he must be imagining it.

(Source: on-hiatus-rn, via empatheticminds)

theidealreasoner:

He tries not to pay much attention to the proximity of their bodies, he tries so very hard not to look at the taller man for more than necessary, but he’s failing. Miserably. He doesn’t even know why it’s so distracting. Two flatmates sitting together on their couch was perfectly normal. There should be nothing odd or weird about it at all. But, John supposes, these other flatmates didn’t have the world’s only consulting detective for a partner.

Sherlock looks amused at the way he nearly chokes on his drink, and while he wipes away the tea that had managed to escape, he glares at him in half-hearted annoyance. After a moment, he thinks that maybe it is a little funny, to react so violently to somebody asking you how your day was. 

“Yeah, well, sometimes I can never tell with you,” John retorts easily, hand still plastered to the Detective’s forehead. But then he coughs, notices that he’s keeping it there longer than necessary, and jerks it back, where it proceeds to pick up his cup of tea. “That’s good. That your day was good, and all.” And now he’s flustered again, the stormy blue of his eyes averting to his tea, and he should really stop it. Calm himself down again. He’s acting worse than an infatuated school girl, when once again- a rather redundant point, but whatever - he had no reason to be. Especially not with Sherlock.

Sherlock reaches out a hand, a few fingers touched to the side of John’s face, skin on skin, a featherlight touch simply to turn his attention back. Because that’s what matters. The other man’s skin is flushed, and lord, that should not affect him but it does. “Are you alright, John?” He trails his fingers to John’s forehead, tracing briefly before dropping his hand. “No fever.” Which leaves him at a blank as to how to respond. Why?…

The look in John’s eyes is something else, Sherlock’s never ever seen that look directed at him. If he’s honest with himself, which he tries to be, it scares the hell out of him. His heart races and it’s all he can do to keep still, keep calm, even though he knows that the way his eyes are tracing every feature of the other man’s face is surely uncomfortable. And it would be easy, it would be so easy just to lean over and touch his lips…

But he shouldn’t even be thinking about that, so he pushes it to the back of his head and swallows audably. “This may be true,” He finally responds, looking away and sitting back, because if he doesn’t, then he doesn’t know what he’ll do. And that would be bad, that would be very bad. “Why are you so flustered?” But he fully knows why, and he feels his stomach sink. It’s his fault. Sherlock swallows again and looks away, “I apologise.”

And he does. This situation is his fault, he’s the one making it uncomfortable, so he turns his attention to the papers in front of him once again.

(Source: on-hiatus-rn, via empatheticminds)

justanexarmydoctor:

“I could have dumped ice cubes in it,” John mumbles, but he doesn’t mind the sarcasm. It’s another thing he’s gotten used to while sharing this flat. He watches the smile that forms on the larger male’s lips and couldn’t help the way his own tilted upwards in response. It wasn’t often Sherlock smiled, so anytime he did the former soldier was keen to commit it to memory. 

Sit down, Sherlock commands, and John hesitates a moment before doing as he’s told, making sure to leave a decent amount of space between them. He waits a short while after the detective takes a sip of his tea before he deems his cool enough to attempt drinking. It was a good blend of tea, fresh, and John made a mental note to acquire more the next time he goes shopping. “Is it? That’s good,” he replies easily and takes another sip- nearly spits it out of his mouth from the surprise that came with Sherlock asking him how his day was.

“Fine, it was, uh. Fine. Yours?” And he’s looking at Sherlock as if he’s gone mad, even raises a free hand and touches the back of it to the other’s forehead. No fever, so he has gone mad after all.

Sherlock silently takes in the mumbled complaint, but doesn’t pay it any heed. John seems to be full of these mannerisms, and although somewhat irksome, they don’t really bother him. He almost watches the way John smiles, his eyes almost sparkle and his skin almost becomes warm in a blush, but it doesn’t, because Sherlock Holmes is calm. Always, calm. The other male sits next to him, and the space between them is almost tangible, the jittery way which John sits is a little amusing, but the easy way he replies puts Sherlock’s overactive imagination to rest.

The way which John almost looses his drink after his question is quite comical, and Sherlock almost lets the words slip from his lips again just to see what John would do, but he stays quiet, if only to be able to hear the full tremor in the stuttered reply he recieves. And him? Oh, his day’s always something.

John’s looking at him -he’s quite used to that look, it’s the way the police, the idiots who want him to solve a case, but still don’t believe in how he works, look at him. It rings out ‘You’re insane.’ And Sherlock ponders that for a moment before coming to the mental decision that it’s somewhat true. It takes him a second to realise that the shorter male’s skin is against his, that his hand is on his forehead, and for some strange reason it burns, makes his heart rate speed up and his mouth freeze in the process of forming words, before he finally manages to spit them out. Calm as always.

“If you’re trying to gage my sicknes and mental capacities then I’m sure you will find that I am highly functioning and not sick in the least. Although I am prone to headaches, which would be the reason for any heated temperature of my skin. I do not think you need to worry about whether I am mentally sound, for I assure you, I am quite fit.” He doesn’t move Watson’s hand though as he continues, “And my day was….good.”

(Source: on-hiatus-rn, via empatheticminds)

justanexarmydoctor:

“Yes, so far. Why, do you have a problem with it?” He sounds defensive as he says this, mentally shoving down the urge to grab the book and hold it protectively to his chest, much like he had done with his laptop.  “Gregory McKinley, a friend of my sister’s. He’s really into the whole fantasy thing. Thought I’d like it.” And it isn’t childish, he finds himself adding mentally. It really is a good series. 

Holmes is up and moving, long limbs shifting so gracefully until they’re settled in their new position, and John was about to excuse himself back to the kitchen when he spoke. 

“I’m not blushing,” he sputters, and even as he says this the pink hue on his cheeks and ears is darkening. The screaming of the kettle saves him from further embarrassment and he mumbles something and heads back to the kitchen to quiet it. He pours the two cups of tea, adds the sugar as instructed, then spreads his hands against the counter, takes a deep breath, and schools his face into neutrality. 

When he emerges again, laden with two cups, he’s struck by how- how he’s very much like a wife. And that’s odd, and it should be unpleasant, but it isn’t. Once he’s close enough, he stretches out his arm and offers Sherlock his cup. “It’s hot,” he warns, but he’s sure the detective realized that anyway.

“No,” Sherlock takes the cup offered, “Really?”

Sarcasm’s his forte, if he does say so himself, which, he does. The mug warms his hands and he can’t help the small smile which thins his lips and the little sigh which comes unbidden from his lips. The small wafts of steam are enough to make him happy, and he doesn’t realise until a second later that Watson’s just standing there, watching.

“Sit down, you’re making me anxious,” He sets the cup down and shifts over slightly, lightly tapping the space beside him, unless, of course, John wants to act the child and sit away from him. Sherlock touches his pinky to the top of the scalding liquid in the ceramic, and blows gently against it, satisfied with it’s heat. He slowly touches the finger to his lips, before, raising his mug and taking a small sip.

A satisfied sound sets at the back of his throat, it looks like John’s really got the hang of this, and that’s good. “The tea is…more than satisfactory,” He settles for saying, and leans back, once again tracing the spidery cracks in the ceiling. For the first time ever, he lets the words, “How was your day?” Spill from his lips.

(Source: on-hiatus-rn, via empatheticminds)

justanexarmydoctor:

“I know,” John says, voice raising so Sherlock can hear it. “I think I’ve made you tea plenty enough times to remember that.” And it’s the truth, of course. Tea was no longer something he did just for himself- there seemed to be an unspoken rule that if John made anything, Sherlock would want some too. 

He hears the detective moving around in the sitting room as he gets out two cups and sets the water to boil, hip resting against the counter as he waited. He’s curious, but the water needs his attention. Not really, but that’s what he’s telling himself. He can still feel the heat from the blush Holmes had given him with a touch of his finger. John coughs, then, and focuses on the kettle. Not long after he hears Sherlock calling to him, and very much curious now, he exits the kitchen. Blue eyes go straight to the book, and he blinks. 

“Oh, yeah. It’s mine. A gift, from a friend. I like it, so far.”

Hearing what comes out of John’s mouth next, Sherlock can’t help but snort. “So far?” He reaches over and thumbs through the pages, skimming the words, even though he already knows them. Childs literature, he’d thought, although, that’s only because he read it when he was all of 13.  There’s a small bookmark wedged in about half way and he can’t help but smile. “Who gave it to you?”

The taller man doesn’t really wait for a response as he darts up crashing back down to lean on his knees, fingers threaded together underneath his chin. “You’re still blushing,” He notes, almost reaching over to Watson as his eyes flash, but he stills his fingers before they’ve even moved. “Why?”

Sherlock’s eyes roam over the area, his nose takes in the smell of fresh tea- earl grey by the soft taste on his tongue.  When did they become so domestic? The funny thing is, he doesn’t even mind. He and John -they’ve grown comfortable together. And even though that thought scares him a little more than he’d like to think, with his calm exterior, it’s still nice.

(Source: on-hiatus-rn, via empatheticminds)

justanexarmydoctor:

Sherlock’s finger is on his chin, pressing on it just hard enough to close his parted lips, and John couldn’t help but choke on his next words, ears dusting with pink. He then remembers his anger and continues on, glaring and huffing and puffing until eventually the anger subsides into something indignant and mild.

The detective is drumming his long fingers on the table as he speaks, and for a moment he’s distracted.

“Your blog says that you’re being honest,” Holmes says, and that’s the end of his distraction.

“And I was being honest. You are infuriating- what we’re arguing over right now is a perfect example of it!” And John sets his laptop down on the table, runs a hand over his face and the other through his short, dirty-blonde hair. Sherlock, as much as he hates to admit it, had indeed improved the appearance of his blog. But that wasn’t the point. You couldn’t just log in to something personal like that andchange it without permission.

“Not good,” he says finally, and turns to head toward the kitchen. “I’m going to make some tea.”

“2 sugars,” Sherlock calls to Johns retreating back. That makes, he counts his fingers, 3 times, that John had walked away today, he must be setting a new personal record. The detective looks over at the pixelated map which is John’s computer screen and smiles, recalling the brief approving look that had passed his ‘friends’ - (and he supposes that’s what John is now, a friend. More than an aquaintance, less than - well, whatever it is that passes these days) face. His mind lingers over the steady flush of the other man’s ears, and he wonders - how could he produce it again? Where, exactly, did it come from?

Sherlock moves through the sitting area, picking out the long couch and lying down, stretching out his long limbs leisurely and picking up the first booklet on the table to leaf through. To his surprise, it’s Lord of The Rings, and for all his observation, he would not have expected that. Perhaps it was a gift from Mrs Hudson? He listens to Watson shuffling about in their tiny kitchen and proceeds to mull over his words before calling out “Is this yours?” and waving the book in the air.

There’s no way Watson can see him, and for some reason that thought amuses Sherlock. At least he knows that his fair haired companion will have to come out and see him, if only to scoff and deny all relations to the piece of literature in his hands. That being said, Sherlock twists one arm underneath his head and looks up at the ceiling. “Well?”

(Source: on-hiatus-rn, via empatheticminds)