→ 04 Nov 11 at 12 am
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.