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Sherlock was looking at John from across the room, because how could he not? John’s hands held the antique book carefully, one gently cradling the spine of the aged leather volume to keep the very binding from falling apart, the fingers of the other lightly turning each page in a cautious manner that made each motion soundless. The detective was transfixed watching those hands, those fingers. Those capable hands that Sherlock had seen fire weaponry to end the unworthy, and save the lives of the victimized.
Following the soft lines of John’s jumper, where it covered the firmness of his arms, Sherlock knew the bland oatmeal color of it was at odds with the enigma of a man that was John Watson. He’d seen the musculature of those arms holding taunt when the doctor scaled fences and walls to assist in their cases, noticed the set of his shoulders when John pulled rank to gain them admittance to locations they’d no right to enter.
John’s neck and his solid jawline, Sherlock really looked at them, too. Not deducing, not that sort of cool observation, this. No, this was Sherlock looking, and wondering how that touch of stubble on John’s cheek would feel against his cheek, his chest, between his thighs.
John’s eyes were steady on the pages as they were turned, those deeply blue oceans that were capable of such sharp focus when the doctor needed or wanted them to be. Eyes that the dark-haired man felt might one day direct toward him in a new way.
They’d shared glances at crimes scenes, and slightly more lingering looks broken too soon when John began to become self-conscious, too aware that someone might see them. Lingering looks, so much like the one Sherlock was directing at John now, yet so different.
There was naked Want in Sherlock’s kaleidoscope eyes, his gaze holding steady on John now. His mind was capable of incredible things, but he’d never had enough skill to explain to John what he wanted, what he needed. So intent was he on this act, he didn’t see when the pages ceased to turn.
John’s eyes lifted from the weathered book, rising to then sweep, seeing that want in Sherlock’s. For a moment his brows lowered, and the detective could tell that the doctor was sorting something out. The brows returned to normal, the lines in John’s forehead evened out, and he placed the book on the table by his chair.
Sherlock was horrified, blanched, had given too much away. And now, John was coming across the room to where Sherlock was stretched on the sofa, the detective turning to face the back of it, knees drawing up as he attempted to make himself smaller.
But, he could not be unseen. John had witnessed for himself, and Sherlock felt an ache lodging in his chest. Unexpected, the soft caress as John’s thumb stroked the signs of distress from Sherlock’s own brow, his tone so soothing as he spoke that Sherlock felt wrapped in a cocoon.
“Sherlock, look at me.” Softly said, but there was weight to the words.
Sherlock could not resist. Heart in his throat, the detective cautiously regarded the man he’d come to love, not sure what he’d find. The look that passed between them had Sherlock feel he might melt. Warmth of a man’s true heart, and heat of man’s undisguised desire.
“Yes, Love. I’ve been waiting for so long, for you to look at me that way, too.” John’s mouth curved into a deep smile, affection so clear, and Sherlock wondered that he had not seen it there all along.
It was a valuable lesson, and one Sherlock took to heart, just as he had the man that looked at him now. No more reasons for Sherlock to turn away, to hide, to not let his eyes fill with the wonder that was John.