Sherlock Imagines

SH - Distractions

Word count: 810

Sherlock was in the kitchen, of course working on some experiment. You watched for a moment from his chair in the living room. Then, you got up and slowly walked to the kitchen, setting your cup in the sink. You then stood behind Sherlock, looking over his slouching shoulder. You had no idea what chemicals he was working with, but apparently they were dangerous enough to warrant Sherlock Holmes wearing safety goggles. He sat up straight, turning his head slightly.

"Need anything?" he asked. He could deduce that out of you if he tried, but sometimes he asked just to be nice.

You shook your head. He stared for a few more seconds before resuming his work. As you continued watching, you got bored. Seeing him mix chemicals and write notes wasn't entertaining, but you didn't have much else to do. You leaned down, laying your body on his back and lazily resting your hands on his sides. You felt him tense, and he didn't move for a moment.

"You're distracting me," he stated.

You smiled and mumbled into his shoulder. "Oh, am I? Terribly sorry." You snaked your arms around his torso, giving him a gentle squeeze.

"You don't sound sorry," he mumbled. His tone told you he was flustered. This was actually entertaining.

"Really?" you cooed, nuzzling your face into his neck. You felt him shift and loosened your grip as he turned Sideways in the chair. You pressed your forehead to his before he pulled you in his lap. You sat up straight and twisted your body, reaching behind you to move the chemicals farther away.

"Safety first," you mumbled, making a smile tug at Sherlock's lips. He hooked his arm around your shoulder, your head in the crook of his elbow as his trailed kisses down your face. He paused, his lips hovering over yours. His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Stop distracting me."

He pecked your lips and pushed you off his lap, turning back to the table. You rolled your eyes and flicked his head, going back to the living room. You turned on the TV, keeping the volume just loud enough to hear from where you were sitting.

Sherlock finished his experiment within about half an hour and retreated to his chair, taking a newspaper from the coffee table. He was probably looking for cases. In your peripheral vision, you saw him peek at you over the paper a few times. Once, you flicked your eyes to him. Just about any other person would have looked away in embarrassment, but Sherlock held your gaze.

You wished you had a brain like Sherlock. Then you'd be able to make some sense out of a guy as strange as him. However, you'd like to think you were pretty good at interpreting emotions, and given that you'd been dating Sherlock for two years, you'd gotten used to a lot of his mannerisms.

He was snappy at times thanks to his lack of a filter. You'd learned over time that he wasn't really that bad of a person, he just had trouble dealing with people of certain types. A good example was Anderson. Usually, if you were at least nice with good intentions, Sherlock wouldn't be too hard on you, even if he did say a few rude things here and there. A lot of the time, it was his idea of banter, but it comes across as straight up mean. You can tell when he feels bad about something he's said.

You figured that he was deep in thought. You took a guess and said he was probably, hopefully, thinking about you. Nonetheless, you decided to ask rather than to try you luck and embarrass yourself.

"What is it Sherl?" you asked sweetly. Unlike your boyfriend, who often spoke in monotone, you changed your tone to show that you weren't being snappy or inpatient. He folded the newspaper and set it down, standing and crossing the room to sit beside you on the couch. He wrapped his arms around you and slumped into you.

"Distract me," he said like it was an order. You knew it was more of a plea. You smiled and held his upper arm with one hand, the other combing through his hair. He gave a hum of approval with his face pressed to your collarbone. You giggled, his hair tickling your skin. You slung both arms around him and leaned back so that he was basically laying on you.

You played his hair for a few minutes, combing through it and twirling strands between your fingers. You tilted your head to look at his face. With his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted, you deduced he was asleep. Your nails against his scalp made him go out like a light.

"Happy to help," you whispered, kissing his forehead.