Sex or Murder?

Silence. The silence between Sherlock and John was definitely deafening... it's almost like it's the only thing heard in their flat... and this kind of silence only occurs when Sherlock is visiting his mind palace.

But why would he do that? They really don't have any cases and they were just there in their flat... Chillin'... as some teenagers would put it. So, what's he doing in his mind palace and why's he staring at John with those damn, penetrating, sexy eyes? (And John means penetrating and sexy in a very platonic, non-sexual way.)

“Sherlock?” The doctor decided to talk. The silence and the staring was making him really uncomfortable. 

Resting his elbows on the dining table and steepling his fingers under his chin (the famous I am thinking pose) Sherlock answered, “Hm.”

“What are you doing?” John asked in his most I am so uncomfortable voice, just so he'll be aware that his staring is not doing John any good.

“Nothing.” he simply answered.

“Nothing?”

“Yes. Nothing.”

Seems like the doctor wouldn't get anywhere if he keeps on asking Sherlock such indirect and pointless questions. “Why are you staring at me?”

That one seemed to surprise the detective. Sherlock immediately cleared his throat, picked up his mug and drank from it.

John just watched and waited for his answer. None came. He just kept on drinking his tea. Slowly. Irritatingly.

The doctor watched and waited...

There. He's done.

Sherlock put his mug down and went back to his I am thinking pose. John expected an answer... nothing. Though the detective kept on staring at him.

“How long are you planning to stare at my nose, Sherlock?” John asked after a few seconds of silence.

“I'm not staring at your nose.”

“Then why are you doing that?”

“Five.”

“What?”

“Four.”

“What!?”

Sherlock looked at his wrist watch and with a smirk on his face, he lifted his head and suddenly reached for John's chin.

“Definitely sex.”

“What!?”

Sherlock stood up, whistling a happy tune that John had never heard before then he went to their sitting room. (If the detective could fucking skip because of too much happiness, he would definitely do that.)

John, gaping and eyes as wide as an owl's, stood up from his own chair and watched as Sherlock picked up his violin and played the tune that he was whistling just now.

The fuck just happened? And what the hell was that? Definitely sex? What was that!? John sat down again, with his hands covering his face.

“Sherlock! I'm not going to have sex with you! I'm not fucking gay!” John shouted at the consulting detective who only responded with a throaty laugh of smugness and satisfaction. 

oOo