Curiosity On Baker Street

"John, I'm leaving. Are you sure you'll be okay?" Sherlock set his scarf and coat down and walked over to John, who had recently sprained his wrist. John sat upright, sipping tea Sherlock made him, but it was too hot. Sherlock took it and set it down, hovering over John, studying every aspect of his face--trying to see if John secretly didn't want him to go.

"I'll be fine, Sherlock. It's just a sprained wrist." John had answered that question about a million times that afternoon.

"You could come with me, then?"

"I don't want to."

Sherlock put on a puppy-dog face. "Please."

"No, Sherlock." John sat back a bit, the coldness of the infrequently-used couch making his back and legs stiffen. Sherlock stood still, not making an effort to even take a breath--he did, he just didn't try to.

"What do you need?" John was looking up angrily at the ever still Consulting Detective. Sherlock sat down (criss-cross) in front of the couch, in between John's legs. He steepled his hands--the tips of his fingers pressing softly against his lips and the bottom of his nose. John looked down--slightly--at Sherlock's concentrated face, Sherlock's eyes scanning everything they could about John at that moment. His breath quickened, Sherlock thought. when I sat down.

As Sherlock got on his knees, and took John's healthy hand, his eyes widened and his pupils dilated. Sherlock's did as well and he could feel the heat creeping up hisbacka nd neck and into his cheeks. He let go of John's hand, looking detached, and when he looked back up, he was surprised to find John's face a bit closer, eyebrows furrowed, eyes squinting a bit.

"What do you want?" John asked quietly, miffed. Sherlock moved to an owl position, and let his knees rest against the couch. John stared at Sherlock intensely. They'd been there for a long while--minutes maybe. Time flies when you're learning about another, trying to find something to say, trying not to be an idiot.

Lastrade had texted Sherlock a billion times, but he ignored him. He was too busy observing, and waiting for John to react. I wonder... Sherlock thought. He brought himself back to his knees. He leaned forward a bit more than before. Their faces were mere centimeters apart, and if they got any closer, their noses would touch. "What is it?" John spoke even softer, and less angry.

"I...want to...make sure...you'll...be...fine...without me..." Sherlock whispered. Curiosity overwhelmed Sherlock as John's breathing became scarce and his cheeks burned bright red. No doubt, Sherlock looked about the same, and both were very stiff and out of it. It--referring to curiosity--got the best of him when he moved closer to John with his body. His face stayed near John's. He put one hand on John's wrist to check his pulse, his left hand on John's right knee. John looked at it--just for a second--then back at Sherlock's eyes

John found them so intoxicatingly beautiful. He felt like engulfing himself in Sherlock, but kept his composure. Well, for a while.

"I'll. be. fine." John managed. Sherlock smiled a genuine smile, something John rarely saw. Sherlock ran his hand up John's thigh as if it were being dragged. He moved closer the the couch, his waist pressed up against the edge. John moved his hand--now realizing what Sherlock was doing--and checked his pulse. (Take that, fucker.) He didn't need to, Sherlock's face gave everything away, but he knew Sherlock would notice. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and John smirked, accomplished.

Sherlock reached to John's lower back and pushed him forwards. "Sherlock, I don't..."

"Don't lie, John. You know it never works." Sherlock gave him a half smile

"Then, I..won't." John placed his hand--the sprained one--on Sherlock's arm. Then the space they had--or lackthereof--was gone. They're mouths moving and their bodies closer together than ever. They laced their other hands' fingers.

John was shocked to find that his extremely unsociable and vehemently-disinterested-in-people-in-general friend--or more than--was so excellent at kissing. John's chest tightened as Sherlock pulled John up with him. They were so quiet and basically drowning in each other. Sherlock's tongue swirled around in John's mouth and he melted.

Their waists were pressed together, the friction of moving agonizing, and when Sherlock's phone buzzed. Lastrade, again. John moved away and slid the phone from Sherlock's trousers' pocket. He tossed it on the couch. Sherlock pulled away and furrowed his brows. "Was that necessary?"

"Yes." Sherlock let go of his wast and hand and went over to get his cell.

"Lastrade. Seven messages. Wonderful..." Sherlock mumbled. John turned around as Sherlock read through them.

"I'll come with." John said, unsure if he truly wanted to, or if he just wanted to kiss Sherlock again.

"Honestly, you don't have to." Sherlock said, turning around to find a John in his coat and waiting for him. Sherlock grabbed his scarf and put in on. John, just before Sherlock could grab his coat, spun him around, grabbed his scarf, and pulled him down to kiss him. It was a very long kiss that felt only a few seconds.

"That was..um, that was good." Sherlock said, clearing his throat. John smiled and Sherlock grabbed his hand tightly. Then they went off to solve crimes and blog about it.

(Wow, how fucking cheesey was that ending? I wasn't sure how to end it, but it had to be happy. HAPYHPAyahpy!!!)