Work Text:
"BORED!", exclaimed by the deep baritone voice from across the living room. I paused on browsing BuzzFeed's website to glance at the long figure of my flatmate now occupying the couch.
And I, John Hamish Watson, once again, was the sole witness of it. Six foot tall of a sulking consulting detective.
The clock just hit eight-thirty in the morning and yes, the street of Marylebone has been buzzing outside like bees on a hive.
"Why don't you watch some telly?" I asked softly.
A series of irritated mumbling ensued that I barely understood anything.
"This and that... And a replay of Britain's Got Talent from last night is on—DULL. Tedious. Boring." The last word was accentuated by flailing hands up in the air.
I sighed heavily as I contemplated if it was the right time to say the word. But then again, even if we had spent the week not saying it, because of our work, it can't be helped.
I huffed a breath, returning my gaze on my laptop, and started counting to ten backwards.
Then I said it.
"Err.. Case? No new case then?"
The air stilled around the flat as an unnerving silence enveloped us.
As far as I know, there hasn't been a Holmes-worthy case for a week that's why my flatmate's nerves were hitting below boredom levels. I could think of a million reasons to entertain him, but I'm a bit hesitant. There's been a change in the atmosphere between us, after the last case had gone wrong. When we were dragged by Lestrade and his men on a hostage situation inside an abandoned warehouse, I helped them calm the hostage taker, a distraught retired military man who've lost the custody of his three year old daughter in a marriage that had gone wrong.
Unbeknownst to us, he buried an improvised bomb on the attic of the warehouse and it was merely seconds before Sherlock deduced it, frantically, accidentally cutting the wrong wire of the mechanism triggering the explosion above us. It killed the hostage taker who was situated near the stairs and unfortunately, the hostage as well. Mycroft arrived at the scene and took care of Sherlock's case, add the fact that he's not a lawman. But it's the Holmes' we're talking about. So, after midnight, Sherlock and I, were already home and retired to our own beds.
But those mere seconds before the bomb exploded in the warehouse, Sherlock looked into my eyes, and I saw not just fear. That was also the moment he pounced on me and buried me in his arms. As if his Belstaff pushing on my face and my body, could save me. I couldn't forget how he trembled and Greg had to shake him and drag him away from me.
Sherlock, my friend, my best friend, was shaking and still whispering, 'You're not going to die, John. Not on me. Never.' And that's when I realise I was shaking as well. PTSD overthrown my will to be a soldier. To be the one who'll save Sherlock. To be the one to keep him safe. In response, I held him as well, hugging him closer to me. I clung to his body like a child. I buried my face on the crook of his neck, and felt warmth, just like that we stayed. I felt his fingers on my hair and heard him whisper my name over and over again. I felt safe. Safer than anywhere else in the world. I didn't recall what happened after that.
EMT's arrived followed by Mycroft. Greg has called him. The medics cleaned us up, then Greg ushered us to the station for paperworks, amidst Mycroft insisting we should be home. But Greg hadn't allowed any of it, 'They should get cleared first, Mr. Holmes, or we're going to face conflict. Not a fan, aren't you?'. Mycroft was left speechless and just grunted. I almost laughed as Greg successfully silenced the man. I once thought there's something between those. If only I wasn't nervous to be grilled by them for what happened, I'd asked what that something could be.
After the station, Greg drove us home, and then Mrs. Hudson tended to us. The next day, Greg came over and the three of us conversed about what happened. Everything was back to the usual, except for the moments when I look at Sherlock and he returned my gaze. There was something new there in his eyes. Warmth? Admiration? I'm still not sure, but I'm willing to take the wee bit of chance I'd come across to put my theories into rest.
"Well, I wouldn't be stuck in here, if there's a new one. Obviously. What's wrong with criminals these days?" Sherlock huffed angrily to no one bringing me back into reality.
There he was my Sherlock Holmes, back again in his own self. Before, I would just look away and then Sherlock would sneak into my drawer looking for my gun or just immediately storming out of the flat to ease his boredom.
That was before. Before the case.
But now, I'm pretty sure Sherlock would never leave my side. For as curious as I am with what has been going on between us, what more could this be to a genius detective who haven't... fallen in love before.
Yes, that's it. Love. I am in love with Sherlock Holmes. I admit it took a long time, and on a sad note it had to cost lives. But now I solemnly swear to protect Sherlock with my own life from now on, much eager than before.
"Dear God! This neanderthal that claims to be a genius is such a fake! How did he even passed Cowell?! Ridiculous!"
I smiled at the figure now sitting up on his chair, carding long fingers over his curls, eyes focused on the telly. I folded my laptop, stood up and and walked slowly behind him.
It's now or never.
If this end well, I still have a flat and who knows a boyfriend. But if not, I'll probably be thrown out and end up homeless. At least I get to do it. Selfish of me, yeah? Yes, indeed.
I looked down at the dark curls in front of me and slowly I slipped my fingers through it, marveling at its softness. But the moment my fingers touched his scalp, I felt Sherlock stiffen and my knees as well. Carefully, I let my left hand crawl slowly on Sherlock's throat, my thumb nudging his jaw to tilt upward. And I nearly cursed, excitement and anticipation brewing inside me, as what I did was followed by a soft gasp from him.
I swallowed a lump on my throat, my throat dry, when he looked up, and our gazes met. Warm, electric, familiar, and instantly I felt hypnotised by those almost emerald eyes, now the colour of a grey-sky morning. I leaned down letting my forehead touch his. Suddenly, I couldn't breathe easier from anticipation. I am lost of air and I know Sherlock's breathing had been ragged from the past minute? Minutes? How long has it been since I stood up behind him? I have no idea.
"John...?" Sherlock's voice brought me back from my thoughts. It was unsure, hesitant, afraid. I almost blamed myself for causing him this state of confusion.
My gaze focused again on the man before me and I smiled at him.
"Sherlock..."
I breathed his name like a silent prayer. An unheard wish deep within me. Just like that he seemed to know. He seemed to understand. A bit cautious but still, he smiled back at me. A heartbeat and it turned to a bold, challenging grin.
"You are a marvel, John Watson. You have managed to derail my thoughts once again." He said to me in a whisper.
I grinned back at him and tucked away the stray curls back to where it should be. Talking in whispers, it felt like an intimate thing.
"I know a cure for your boredom." I whispered back, playfully. My voice ghosting over his face, lips, and brows.
"No, you don't." Sherlock replied smugly. Not even leaning away at our closeness.
"Yes, I do. If you'll let me." I braved.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his curvy lips slightly opening to an 'O', and on that instant, I leaned down, capturing his lips with mine.
With a muffled moan we kissed. A simple peck on the lips that I was planning as a test, turned into a heated snogging session. I could feel Sherlock everywhere. As if he's inside my head. As if he occupied my whole body and soul. And there I realised that I really am in love with this man.
Our kisses turned to a messy one while Sherlock's hands invaded spaces. The back of my neck, the inside of my jumper, the expanse of my chest. I felt the first stirrings of arousal but Sherlock in the same state of his own refused to let go. My fingers searched for his glorious curls once again to worship. My lips ached from the sweetest pain of Sherlock nipping at them while my knees are more than ready to give up. As if sensing my ordeal, Sherlock huffed a breath and pulled away. His eyes wide, and searching all over my face.
I leaned down once again and kissed his temple. After that when our eyes met again, I almost laughed at the stunned look on Sherlock's face. But I could tell that calmness had settled down on him.
"Told you I do." I said with a playful grin and a wink. Then I turned around and made my way to the kitchen. That's when I heard a muffled groan followed by an, 'Oh, John...' that added on the reason to grin.
"How 'bout some cookies? I'll bake some for us and tea." I offered heartily.
There was no response, so I turn to look at the man. And when I did, I giggled. A giggle that turned into a laughter, because a Sherlock Holmes, sitting on his chair with an arm wrapped around his propped knees, cheeks flushed with a free arm over his eyes was enough to make me laugh.
I prepared everything on the kitchen table and started to mix the ingredients when a pair of long arms snaked its way on my waist holding me tight against him. A chill ran down my spine as Sherlock's deep baritone voice talked over my ear. Shaky, but full of wonder and affection.
"I'm in love with you and your own cure for boredom, John."
With a smile painted on my lips, I turned sideways in time to meet Sherlock's sensual lips, murmuring my own response of affection, while the show on the telly rolled its credits.
Theories has been put to rest, and only the fact remained.
Well done, Watson.