Chemical Disaster {JOHNLOCK}

Accident On The Stairs

    Sherlock wasn't hungry, but when his Shepherd's pie arrived, he forced himself to take a few bites.

   "You don't like it?" John's voice broke his chain of thoughts. Before, it was natural, something done subconsciously, for Sherlock to avoid the doctor's attempts to start a conversation and concentrate on the case, but today, his ears picked up on the slightest sounds that came out of John's mouth, including the noise of his mastication.

    Sherlock shrugged.

    "You should see your face! Is it that bad?" John insisted.

    Sherlock placed his fork down. "It's just... I don't really feel like eating. I'm on a case."

   "Can't quite figure how it's related."

   "Digestion slow down my thinking process."

    John stuffed a spoonful of food in his mouth to smother a laugh. Their conversation died there, and the rest of the meal was eaten with the only sound of forks scratching against plates. After the ardent look they've exchanged and John's caress, both men failed to keep up a casual exchange.

When the fork-scratching sounds ceased coming from John's direction, Sherlock looked up from his half-eaten Shepherd's pie.

"I think we should go."

   John eyed Sherlock's plate. "You know what I think? I think you'd rather face a serial killer than eat your meal."

"You're right. It's much more exciting."

John shook his head and went to pay the bill. A few minutes later, they were in a cab, headed to Montague Street.

  The car ride was silent without Sherlock's odd remarks and John's unceasing questioning. When they arrived, instead of leaving John to pay the cab, Sherlock did it himself. He even slipped the precise amount John had paid earlier at the restaurant in his coat pocket, not omitting the ten percent service fee added to the original cost of their Shepherd's pie. This sudden devotion to amiability was unfamiliar to Sherlock, but the idea of inviting John for dinner pleased him a lot more than it should have.

  Sherlock opened the door and they both went inside.

    "John?"

    Sherlock stopped abruptly in midway through the stairs. John, whose eyes were focused on his feet, carefully avoiding Sherlock's behind which was at the exact height of his sight, continued climbing the stairs and bumped into him. Sherlock stepped one foot forward in attempt to regain his balance, but he tripped. He was John's only source of stability, so they fell together like a row of dominoes. John landed on Sherlock's back. A load groan came out of the detective's mouth, followed by a long silence. He looked over his shoulder and locked eyes with John.

In his efforts to avoid hurting Sherlock, John had used his hands to cushion the landing. They were still on each side of Sherlock's body, pinning him to the stairs. One of his knees was between Sherlock's legs and his torso was pressed to his lower back, his heart beating against the detective's body.

  Neither John nor Sherlock moved, though they were both very aware of the closeness brought by this position. Sherlock felt the rise and fall of John's chest, and he wondered how John's breathing would feel on his bare skin if only it wasn't completely enveloped in a button down shirt. Would it tickle him? Would the doctor's breaths be as warm as his hand was when he had accidentally grabbed it? Would it bring back the sparks he had felt when John had caressed his hand with his thumb?

   Sherlock tried to stand up in hope that physical distance would appease this concerning impulse, but John moved his knee to get up and it brushed against his inner thigh, setting off an avalanche of lascivious images that flashed across his mind so rapidly that it felt like an electric shock. Sherlock tensed as these vivid pictures he didn't even know his brain could make up invaded his mind.

   "Sherlock? You alright?" John asked from above.

   Sherlock inhaled a sharp breath. Hearing John's warm voice wasn't exactly ameliorating his situation.

   "Sherlock?"

   "I'm fine, John," Sherlock replied using all the willpower he had left to keep his voice monotone. "What is it you didn't want to tell me?" he asked, pulling himself out of his alarming thoughts.

   It took a while for John to understand the question.

   "I don't know," John murmured.

   He was telling the truth. For some reason, the view of Sherlock's jet black curls overloaded his brain, and he was unable to recall his secret. The detective's sharp cheekbones and Cupid bow lips might have contributed too, not to mention his eyes that were an arresting shade of turquoise, the dim golden light of the staircase adding traces of green in his originally blue eyes.

    "Okay."

    Although John had noticed long ago the effects Sherlock's deep voice had on him, it was unbelievable how one word, only one, could send shivers up and down his entire body.

   It was an enormous relief for John when Sherlock finally got to his feet. The sight of his hair made him want to slide his hand into his fluffy curls, and restraining himself was torture.

   They finished climbing the stairs without encountering any other accident, and this time John allowed himself to glance at Sherlock's behind, in case he would stop in the middle of the stairs again. John thought it was quite a valid reason, but it would've worked just as well if he had looked at the detective's feet instead.

   Sherlock rushed to the bathroom and slammed the door shut. He paced back and forth in the little space, desperately trying to  contain his emotions, but they were like the troubles of Pandora's box: once they were out, it was impossible to lock them back in.

   He glanced at his watch. It told him he had seven minutes before the rendezvous, so he sat on the covered toilet seat, struggling to think of something, anything, that did not involve John.

  Just as he was beginning to calm down, he heard the wooden floor of his flat crack.

    "Sherlock!" John released a scream. The distress in his voice tore Sherlock's heart apart. He dashed to the bathroom door, unlocked it, pushed it open and came head to head with Eleanor Fernsby.

Sherlock's blood froze in his veins when he saw the gun she was holding at John's temple.