Baker Street Boys

36(ii)

The porcelain is unforgiving as he tries hard to press against it, to resume his normal routine, but Sherlock's arms reach around to hold onto the sink and his hips pump even harder.

Without a word — at this point he can't guarantee what that word would even be and there's a good chance it wouldn't be 'stop' — John whirls around. The look of surprise on Sherlock's face as he is thrown off balance, mixed with the flushed skin of arousal that has spread over his pale chest and neck, is nearly enough to keep John there, to make use of that perfect 'O' that Sherlock's lips have made. But he doesn't. He surges through the open door, nearly tangling himself up in Sherlock's limbs as he does, and doesn't glance back.

The kitchen is blessedly cool, the linoleum on his bare feet grounding him as he storms upstairs. He stays in his room for an hour, slamming drawers as he gets dressed. It's too dangerous to think about what just happened, so he doesn't. He makes noise periodically so Sherlock will know he's still up there and is not interested in a conversation. After a while, he hears the front door close and he exhales what feels like the same breath he's been holding all day.

What the entire fuck is happening?

__________

A week passes without incident. At first, John finds himself avoiding Sherlock as often as possible. He stays in his room until he hears the shower start each morning, puts his coffee and tea in to-go cups and takes them to the park. He starts running again; going for jogs in the evening as the streetlights illuminate and Sherlock paces the sitting room or wrenches terrible sounds out of his violin.

Mrs Hudson catches him at the bottom of the stairs one morning as he's headed out.

"Everything alright, love?" Her eyes are lined with concern, but her tone is laced with wisdom. She frowns. "Not many cases on lately, are there? You two must be getting terribly bored up there."

John edges toward the door, keen to escape without discussing what exactly he and Sherlock have been up to in the last few weeks.

A hand on his arm stops him.

"How about you come down for dinner tonight." It's not a question. "I'll make something sweet to lure that stubborn one. You tell him. I'll see you later."

And with that, she disappears into her flat in a swirl of pearl buttons and floral scent.

John blinks and groans as he pushes the door open. It's raining, but he trudges out anyway.

__________

"No thanks."

"I don't think she was asking, Sherlock. She's making a pudding just for you. You know she'll just come up here if we don't go down there. And she'll make a damned fuss over the state of the kitchen." John isn't even sure why he's pressing the issue. He doesn't want to go play happy family with Mrs Hudson and Sherlock either.

The kitchen isn't actually too bad, not considering how long they've both been cooped up in here without a good case. It's been — John thinks back, counting in his head — at least three weeks. Three weeks of nothing exciting, unless one counts the sudden weird amount of sexual tension between them. John shrugs. Maybe that's Sherlock's new method of releasing frustration.

John thinks he'd prefer mouldy toenails in the crisper or holes shot in the wallpaper instead of this constant confusing display of... whatever this is that Sherlock has been up to lately.

A draft blows through the rooms, and John looks up to see Sherlock leaning half out of the window, exhaling smoke and looking pensive. He's in a pair of track bottoms and a t-shirt, the muscles in his arms rippling as he fiddles with the cigarette held loosely between his fingers.