*Continuing from previous chapter.
The atmosphere in the flat is tense for the next few days. Or, at least it is for the few hours that John pops in, long enough to toss (and toss off) restlessly in his bed, sleep mostly elusive, before dressing in the dark and leaving once more.
He can't look his flatmate in the eye.
They exchange fewer than ten words. It is all John can do to not address what happened the other day; to mumble out some explanation, some macho bullshit. The truth is, he has no explanation and no excuse. So now he's doing what he should have done that day as soon as he walked in and saw his flatmate's c— obvious preoccupation .
He's left the flat as often as possible, spending time picking up extra shifts at the clinic, going for long meandering walks around the city, and even voluntarily scheduled a visit to Harry this weekend. If he were to stumble upon a genie in a bottle, he thinks to himself as he steps around a puddle, his first wish would be to disappear from the universe.
_________
"You can stop this now, John. It's become quite tedious."
"Stop what? Hoovering? Have you seen this place?"
"John."
"Sherlock."
"You only clean when you're upset."
"That's not— Sherlock. What are you doing? Mm... actually, ya know what? Fuck it. I'm not interested. Enjoy your... workout. Or whatever. It's seven degrees out, you look ridiculous with your shirt off."
"Yes you are."
__________
"Occupied."
The door knocks into John's elbow, even as he shifts away.
"I said, occu— ocupado! Occupeé! Dolu! Oof. Sherlock— what the —? "
"No problem, John. Keep on."
"No, I —" John feels his neck and face flush with embarrassment and then something else as Sherlock presses against him, reaching over John to try and reach his shaving kit in the mirror cabinet. John bristles, annoyed. Why should he move over? He was here first. The loo is small, but not that small. Sherlock can wait, or he can budge over a bit and let John finish his own routine. It's never been an issue before, so what could possibly be the hurry now?
"What's the rush? Got a case on?" John aims for casual, misses by a mile as his voice rises into an unnatural pitch. He can feel Sherlock's warm body pressing against his bare back. Sherlock shifts, rinsing his razor and — oh my god .
John presses against the sink as tightly as possible, trying to put distance between the small of his back and Sherlock's very obviously erect cock, pressing insistently now against his skin. It's only polite.
What is decidedly less polite is when Sherlock pumps his hips a moment later, angling so his cock hits John in the top of the buttocks. It can't have been an accident, and nope, there it is again, harder this time.
Surprised, John glances up to meet Sherlock's eyes in the mirror. They're dark and hooded, his mouth open slightly as he pushes into John a third time.
John recognises that look and oh that's really a bit not good, isn't it? A memory flashes through his traitorous brain of Sherlock — wrecked and moaning as he came in his own hand, legs splayed over the sofa — and he has to bite his lip from whimpering. There is absolutely nothing casual about this, no excuses in the world could explain this away as accidental.
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.
"Alright."
John's headed upstairs to change when Sherlock speaks. It's quiet, but lacking the bored or disinterested tone he expects to hear. Instead, John thinks that if he turns to look over his shoulder, he'd see the ghost of a smile playing on Sherlock's lips; the tiny vee his mouth makes and the sparkle he gets in his eyes when he's got a plan but is waiting to see if it'll work out. John doesn't turn.
__________
Mrs Hudson has a bottle of red wine already open and breathing by the time they make their way downstairs. She hands each of them a knife and a pile of basil to chop. She's got artichokes steaming and is making a delicious smelling pasta with sauteed garlic and asparagus.
"No oysters, I'm afraid."
John can feel Sherlock shrug next to him. They're pressed nearly shoulder to shoulder in the tiny kitchen, sharing real estate on a long rectangular cutting board.
"C'est la vie. John probably would've ordered Indian again, so a home cooked meal of any calibre is an improvement."
"Are we celebrating? What's the occasion?" John asks, scooping up the chopped basil and looking around for a bowl to place it in while the pasta finishes cooking. Sherlock reaches above his head and pulls one out, setting it on the worktop without a word and turning to pour them each a glass of wine.
Mrs Hudson doesn't respond either, except to tut at the boiling water. John feels a bit like he's missed the last step of a staircase, but doesn't dwell on it much, as Sherlock hands him a small plate with several artichoke leaves on it.
He smiles his thanks, settling into a chair as Mrs Hudson launches into what promises to be a very long rant about the latest rearrangement of aisles at Sainsbury's.
Across from him, Sherlock is concentrating hard on dipping his own artichokes in melted butter and dragging them against his teeth. John takes a sip of his wine, only half-listening to Mrs Hudson as she asks Sherlock about a recent rash of suspected arson she's heard about on the telly. There's a bit of butter on Sherlock's lip, making the dip of his cupid's bow shine. As John watches, Sherlock takes his last artichoke leaf from his plate and rubs it along his bottom lip, seemingly lost in thought as he nods along with Mrs Hudson's theories. It's oddly seductive, and a few weeks ago, John would have assumed it was accidental. Now though, after the last few weeks of quickly growing tension between them, John's not so sure. He shifts in his chair, forcing himself to focus on the wallpaper over Sherlock's left shoulder and Hudders' voice, instead of the tightness of his trousers.
During the next lull in the conversation, John chances a quick glance back at Sherlock and is startled to find him staring directly at him. With exaggerated movements, Sherlock runs his tongue along his top lip, slowly, so slowly, holy hell .
"Stop making eyes at one another and take a plate. The asparagus will get mushy." Mrs Hudson tsks her tongue, waving her dishtowel at the table before picking up her own loaded plate and wine glass.
John swallows and feels his face flush, still unable to tear his eyes away as Sherlock picks up his napkin and dabs delicately at the corners of his mouth. He gives John a wicked grin, no doubt terribly pleased with himself and his little performance, before rising fluidly and collecting his plate from the worktop.
John exhales and stands as well, reminding himself for what feels like the millionth time that he is a soldier, dammit . He reaches for his glass of wine and gulps it down.
__________
Some hours later, full of wine and pasta and some delicious chocolate concoction, John reaches for the doorknob to their own sitting room, ready to put on his stretchiest sweatpants and collapse. But before he can get it open, Sherlock crowds in behind him, placing one hand on the door above John's head.
"Sher—"
"Did it work?" His voice is a low growl in John's ear.
"Did what work?"
"The meal. Artichokes, chocolate, asparagus, red wine... all claimed to be aphrodisiacs. If nothing else, the presence of resveratrol in the wine would have increased blood flow and is even claimed to increase testosterone in average males—"
John turns slowly, his brow furrowing as he tries to make sense of the word salad Sherlock is serving for a final course. His brain feels sluggish and slow, possibly the result of the increased blood flow to other regions. But before he can open his mouth for clarification, Sherlock has claimed it with his own, pressing the full length of his body against John's and pushing him against the door.
The kiss is wet and filthy, open mouthed and desperate and far too much.
"Sherl—" John pushes against his chest with both hands, but the other man is a solid wall of lean muscle. His leg slots between John's.
John pulls his head away as much as possible, but Sherlock chases it, latching on to the pulse point of his neck. It's all the things John has always wanted, but in all the wrong ways. It feels manipulative somehow, and John feels the wrongness welling up inside of him, pushing its way to the surface.
"Sh—Sher— STOP!" John shoves him hard this time and Sherlock loses his balance, toppling against the small table and landing with a tiny oof on the bottom step.
John is careful not to look at him as he steps past and goes up to his bedroom, shutting the door with a firm click that echoes loudly against the silent stairs.
_________
They don't talk about it the next day. Or the next. In fact, a solid two weeks pass, during which Sherlock appears to have forgot about the entire ordeal. He finds a few cases and they stay busy chasing petty criminals. Odd body parts appear in the fridge again and Sherlock keeps all of his clothes firmly on his body and his hands (and lips) to himself. There are no more lingering seductive lip licks, or accidental brushing of hands or arms (or groins).
John thinks about approaching the subject more than once, if only to apologise for his (over?) reaction, but decides against it, choosing instead to follow Sherlock's lead and leave the past in the past.
Until he comes home from work late one afternoon to a flickering flat. On every available surface, a candle has appeared. There's a fire lit in the hearth and soft piano music is playing from somewhere.
He finds Sherlock in the kitchen, humming to himself and opening a bottle of wine.
John groans.
"Are we doing this shit again?"
Sherlock turns, blinking.
"John?"
"The... ambience. The wine. Come off it. It's terribly transparent." This must be Sherlock's attempt at an apology.
"It's time."
"Hm?"
"It's time you knew the truth."
"The truth." Odd way of starting an apology, but maybe Sherlock really thinks he's been tricky with his obvious attraction.
Sherlock inhales deeply and steeples his fingers. He looks miffed, as if John is being particularly dense. John doesn't know how that could be possible, as he's only been home from work for eleven seconds and it seems pretty clear that he's sorted out Sherlock's entire game.
"I've been conducting an experiment on you. And I— I'm feeling a bit weird about it and thought I should tell you now."
"An experiment. That's what we're calling it? Okay. I'll bite." John rolls his eyes and assumes a falsely put-upon voice. "Oi, Sherlock! I thought we agreed, no more experimenting on me." John sighs. He's not even upset, and what does that say about him, exactly? He's just tired. "What is it this time? I'm supposed to go to Harry's this weekend. Do I need to cancel?"
"Er. John? You're not upset. Why aren't you angry?"
"Have I been poisoned? Is it in this wine? Slipped a hallucinatory drug? Lost an entire Tuesday again— is it not Friday today?" John glances at his phone, half expecting to see that it's not even April.
"No. It's nothing like that. It's..." Sherlock trails off, shuffling his feet.
"Sherlock. Now would be the time for you to apologise. Then I'm ordering Thai."
"I have... I may have..."
John raises his eyebrows at Sherlock's uncharacteristic stuttering.
"Spit it out."
"I perhaps took advantage of our special connection to do some experimenting."
John forces himself to roll his eyes at 'special connection' and gestures for him to go on. "On?"
"You. Us." His voice drops and John leans in to hear the rest, though he's not even sure he wants to. "Our homoerotic tension."
"Homo— Jesus , Sherlock. Listen to me when I tell you, since the other fifty thousand times I've said it hasn't apparently sunk in. I am not gay." John hopes Sherlock can hear the full stops in between each word for emphasis. "There is no homo anything. No homo."
The next bit is said in a voice that is somehow small and timid, yet full of Sherlockian cockiness: "The data says otherwise."
"The data." It's not a question. John pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling suddenly exhausted. He reaches for the bottle of wine and pours himself a healthy glug, needing the distraction for his hands and the liquid fortification for what promises to be a frustrating conversation.
"Yes, John. Data. I've collected data from you over the last month and a half and absolutely everything points to a single conclusion, but it appears that that conclusion is erroneous. Also, possibly immoral. Eh... bit of a grey area. Hence why I'm coming clean. No more experimenting. It was a long shot anyway."
"So you experimented... to see... if I was attracted to you."
Sherlock nods.
"Well. Let me help. I'm not." He shrugs, hoping it looks casual and that the devastation he's feeling at being nothing more than some experiment doesn't show on his face. "I'm not gay and I'm not attracted to you. Or any men."
"Well, as I said... the data says otherwise. The experiment really was quite simple. There's plenty of suggestions on the internet for making someone horny. Since you were already primed for homosexual urges, thanks to your physical attraction to me, it was simply a matter of giving you what you wanted in increasingly intense doses."
John shakes his head, stepping closer to Sherlock and crowding him against the worktop.
"You utter cock. You absolute fool. I am not primed for anything. You manipulated me with games for weeks, but your little experiment failed and now you're realising that it was all just a waste of time."
John's breathing hard now, watching as each word lands like a blow on Sherlock's features. Sherlock drops his gaze.
"No."
"No?"
"No. It wasn't a waste of time."
John takes a step back, shaking his head. But Sherlock continues, lifting his gaze and meeting John's imploringly.
"You're right, you're not gay. You're bisexual. I miscalculated a bit. You're fighting hard against your own internal urges but you wish you could just let loose a bit and have some fun. Give in to those urges. Have sex with me."
"No, no. I can't."
"Why? John, just tell me why ."
"Because... I can't." John can feel the fight slipping out of him and he scrabbles to retain it, to find the anger again. The anger is safe. Because the alternative is much too dangerous.
Sherlock crowds into his space, right up against him nearly groin to groin and god, why did he have to smell so good and be all hard planes and sharp edges and cool confidence? John stiffens, feeling the corner of the table digging into the backs of his thighs.
"Sh—"
"Tell me why, John." His voice is deep, deeper than usual, and has an edge to it; sharp and swift like the edge of a blade. For a moment, John imagines it slicing into him. It would be clean and painless, letting the hard sharpness pull his legs out from under him and gouging out his heart. He could do that. He could die here.
The noise he makes has hardly any sound behind it. It's air and breath and panic. He can't do this. They can't do this. Without another thought, he presses forward, meeting the edge with his own mortal flesh.
"Because I love you , you absolute berk!"
Their mouths crash together and John gives up the fight.