His Lap Full

It was achingly cold out. Snow flurries were springing up intermittently, and they'd been working non-stop for two weeks tracking down a blackmailer only to hit another dead end... and there wasn't a cab to be found anywhere. The look of bewildered consternation on Sherlock's face when he was reduced to using mass transit with mere mortals was priceless. John would probably still be laughing about it if the detective hadn't slipped in a puddle of melted snow on the stairway down and turned his ankle. They missed two trains as John helped Sherlock down to the platform and found him a pillar to lean against while they waited for the third.

When the train approached, John hustled them through the crowd to get as close to the doors as possible, and, when they opened, they slid quickly into the carriage.

The massive crowd on the platform flowed in even more quickly around them, though, so that by the time they got their bearings, only one seat on the end of the row was still empty. John pushed Sherlock down into it before it was gone too.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, brows drawn together in annoyance.

"I'm getting you that seat before someone else takes it. It's dog eat dog on the tube, Sherlock."

Sherlock huffed. "You're the one who needs to sit down. You're so knackered you can barely hold your head up."

"Yes, well, you're the one with a turned ankle. And I don't have to hold my head up," he said as he gestured at his temple, "I can rest it right here," he finished as he leaned his head against the pole he was gripping.

As more people pushed their way into the car, John was forced to stand between Sherlock's spread legs, facing him. He couldn't keep a grip on the vertical pole behind him and shifted his hold to the horizontal bar above Sherlock's head. It was a bit of a reach for him and caused the hem of his sage colored jumper to rise above the waist of his trousers, exposing a sliver of the bare skin of his stomach. The train started off with a lurch that forced John to put both hands on the bar, revealing even more skin and putting his chest into very close proximity to Sherlock's face.

Sherlock blew out a breath of pure irritation over the whole situation. He was torn between wanting to slump down into the collar of his coat to shut out the noisy crowd and wanting to crane his head around like a rather grumpy owl to examine every person in the car. One thing he did not want to do was stare too long at the soft green fabric only a few inches from his face; thinking too long on how supple that wool would feel under his fingers or how velvety the skin underneath would feel against his palms was nothing but an exercise in masochism. Of course, with John right there, with the warmth of his body rippling across his face, the in and out rise of his respirations bringing him teasingly close to Sherlock's lips with each breath, it was impossible not to think about it. He couldn't stop the unconscious, miniscule tip of his head toward John each time the man inhaled. He couldn't stop rubbing his hand against the thigh of his own trousers, desperate in some distant part of his mind to feel the actual brush of wool under his hand as he imagined running it up and down John's side, under his arms down to his waist.

Neither could he stop the subtle flare of his nostrils as he took in the earthy scent of cashmere and the salty musk that was John's own personal aroma. Sherlock didn't know if it was his extraordinary sense of smell or the extraordinary scent of John that made it possible to detect his unique signature amongst the morass of other odours in the crowded car, but it didn't particularly matter, because smell him he could. When he caught himself about two inches from John's stomach, his head moving forward with every intention of burying his face in it so he could soak in that fragrance, wallow in it, take some hint of it onto his own body, he decided the best course of action would be to stop breathing through his nose and breathe through his mouth instead.