The Loving Detective

Eins

Thousands of raindrops fell from the sky on a slow, uneventful Tuesday night. Traffic was almost nonexistent on Baker Street and all the neighbors were quiet within their own homes. John perched himself in Sherlocks chair, equally reading a novel and watching the lines of rain converge into one another on the outside out the window. Quiet, yet present footsteps walked up the stairs outside and Sherlock barged into the flat, soaking wet. He threw his wet coat onto the desk and stood still for a moment, staring at John.

"You're in my spot." John sighed.

"Welcome home, Sherlock. Why don't you change into something a bit more dry." Sherlock rolled his eyes and stomped his way into the further room down the hallway. He door slammed and John continued reading. John didn't want to get into conversation why he was sitting in Sherlocks chair. The claimed seats idea is a bit childish, but they've had this tradition for years, so Sherlock would take to heart. In all honesty, John just liked the smell. It smelled of Sherlocks cologne and body wash and shampoo mixed together. After nearly an hour passed by, Sherlock exited his room, entering the living room.

"May I ask why you are in my chair?" He played with his still damp, black curls while his other hand sat inside his pocket.

"It's closer to the window. I like watching the rain." Technically this wasn't a lie according to John. His favorite weather is rain, and there's times where he's disappointed he can't sit and watch the rain since Sherlock's seat, and sometimes his body, was in the way.

"Sure," Sherlock's long, slender body sunk into Johns designated chair across from where John sat, "can we switch seats by any chance?" His legs crossed and he pressed his fingers into his chin.

"No, I'm quite comfortable in this spot." John teased, covering his uncontrollable smirk with a fist.

The detective sighed in compliance to John wanting his chair, "I'm sure you are." He grabbed a newspaper on the side table, reading a headline about him and John's "miraculous" work.

"You reading the article on us?" John asked.

"Yeah," Sherlocks voice trailed off as his eyes skimmed the printed page, "do you think people actually read these? I counted eight lies in the whole thing."

"Sherlock, I'm sure we have plenty of fans who read those, but the errors don't matter. I don't care considering people don't recognize me out in public." John replied, keeping his eyes glued to his book.

Throughout only twenty minutes of silence, the rain poured harder on London, and after a crash of thunder shook the house, Sherlock took a minute to look outside. Instead of going to a completely open window, he stood right behind John, placing his left hand onto Johns shoulder. The weight of Sherlocks hand made it feel like sparks flickered out into Johns body.

"Bloody hell, it's pouring out there." Sherlock commented, but John didn't reply, though the hand remained on his shoulder. Again, for a few minutes, they existed in silence. The only sounds heard in the flat were the slow paced breaths they each took.

"I'm getting quite tired, I should head to bed." John insisted, hoping Sherlock would remove his hand, making the transition of getting up less awkward.

"You don't have work tomorrow, it's only nine pm."

"You are correct, but I am exhausted from these last few days, so time for bed." Once Sherlock took his hand off of his shoulder, Johns lips pressed into a flat line, and got up from Sherlock's chair. He walked down the walkway into his bedroom, quietly shutting the door close, unlike Sherlock before.

When he heard the door close, Sherlock sat back into his spot and the smell of John intertwined with he existing presence of Sherlocks scent. The two coincided with one another and the aroma made was pleasing to breath in as Sherlock watched the rain fall down the window like John did only minutes ago.

In his bedroom, John paced about, anxiety levels on high for no reason. Every time he tried to think about if he genuinely had feelings for his flatmate, he stressed about it and was never able to find answers with himself.

He sat on the end of his bed, palms cupped in his sweaty face and his short breaths were muffled and only escaped through the small cracks between his fingers.

Three small knocks landed on the outside of his door, and with no one answering it, the door opened with Sherlock there, "are you alright?", he asked staring at John, trying to collect himself.

"Yeah, no, I'm fine." He gave a steady nod, yet his his his trembling hands in his pockets, though the detective took notice of this.

"Sit back down," Sherlock motioned to the edge of the mattress, where John was just previously. They sat next to one another for only a few minutes before Sherlock broke the silence, "you can tell me anything." John simply nodded, holding the lump of tears inside his throat. The last he wished upon himself was to cry in front of Sherlock.

"Get in bed, I'll stay sitting here till you fall asleep."

"No-"

"John, I insist. It's not like I'll be crawling under the covers with you." Although John wouldn't mind if he did so. He simply sighed, putting himself under the white comforter and dark blue fuzzy blanket he had on his bed. Thanks to Sherlock, all the lights had been shut up except one lamp on the bedside table.

Sherlock sat down on side of the bed hesitantly placing his hand onto Johns ankle under the covers. Sherlocks touch gave John the same feeling it did just before, thousands of sparks bursted from the reaction his and Sherlocks skin touching.