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All the usual signs were there, the ones most often employed by those ridiculous romantic films.
Dilation of the pupils. Changes in breathing - increase in frequency of breaths per minute as well as shallow quality of the breaths themselves. Rapid eye movement between lips and eyes. Involuntary licking of said lips.
None of these were terribly consequential, and were such signs present by themselves Sherlock might have been able to dismiss them.
But John's right hand had clenched up, just enough to be noticeable. That quick curl of fingers that had been loose only moments earlier, curling into a fist of I-should-not-be-feeling-this. A fist that was not relaxing like it was supposed to. The moment should have passed. But it wasn't, it wasn't.
Tension was suddenly skittering up his spine like a badly played scale on his violin. Sherlock swallowed and blinked one, two, threefourfive times.
John?
"Did you know that honey bees do not always expire upon the utilization of their stingers?"
"Sorry, what?"
"It's true." Sherlock's hands hand gone to fold themselves immovably in front of his body. "While it is most common for bees to lose their stingers upon human contact, thus dislodging the thing and spilling their internal organs, when stinging other insects or certain select animals the stinger remains quite intact and they may sting multiple times."
John cocked his head to the side, thin lips pursing. "Is that right."
"Mm. Even when they engage in multiple stings there is no harm to themselves. Although, of course I only know that to be true of honeybees. In terms of other species I, I, I'm afraid I don't exactly know as such what may occur in the context of stinging non-human creatures."
John's green-grey gaze sharpened, cleared. His brow eased itself out of its downward position and into a more neutral angle (not more than 2.8 degrees, by the looks of it), and a bare hint of a smile crept onto his face.
He took a step closer, and another. Sherlock wondered absently if his old gunshot wound was playing up; why else would the upper region of his thoracic cavity suddenly be so tight and hot?
John's fist was still clenched. Those sturdy doctor's fingers were still twitching.
"And, and they're cold-blooded. Honey bees. Though they can generate their own heat through the vibration of their bodies, and may reach a temperature of fifty-four point four degrees Celsius during flight."
John had slowed in his approach but he was not stopping. He was closer, so close, and Sherlock could not find it in him to remove his feet from the carpeted floor. John's eyes were hard and bright, and knowing.
He was not stopping. Perhaps he hadn't been stopping since the day they'd met.
"They can lose the ability to move, though. If, ehm, caught in unfortunate weather. Because they've lost heat, you see."
Ten inches between them. Eight, six, four inches. His heartbeat was roaring in his ears.
Three and one-half inches, and a pair of calloused, warm hands on his slim shoulders.
Breath he'd never tired of observing, now puffing softly over skin reddened by blood rising to its under-surface.
John's mouth was pressed to his and he stiffened, stiffened, mind going utterly blank. John's lips slid over his, gently insistent. Inquisitive. John's hands rested, not squeezing (not yet), thumbs moving in little circles that had no business softening Sherlock's heart as they were.
John.
The shorter of the two pulled away, just enough to open eyes that pierced him through more surely than any bullet.
"Sherlock?"
His lips were parted, and it was some time before he regained the neural functioning to close them again.
"It's alright, John," he said without thinking. When had his hands slotted themselves so neatly onto his blogger's waist? "It's all fine."
When their lips met again, it was John's turn to be deprived of thought.