Chapter Text
John looked up from behind the newspaper warily. It had been a long time since he had seen the consulting detective in one of his moods. Today seemed to be the day. Sherlock was pacing restlessly in front of the huge board looming over the living room couch, mumbling to himself.
Pinned to the board were numerous newspaper clippings, post-its and pictures, among them, of all things, a snapshot of Joe Biden. Many of the items were connected by a seemingly random web of threads. John had given up trying to make sense of the concoction about a week ago. He had meant to ask Sherlock what the Biden picture was about, though. However, now didn't seem like the right time.
Sherlock stopped pacing, in order to glare at the board so intensely that John almost expected it to spontaneously burst into flames. The detective caught him staring and redirected his gaze at him. John felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. For a second, he felt a weird sense of companionship with the board. He thought that he might be about to unravel the secret behind spontaneous human combustion.
“It doesn't make any sense, John!”
Sherlock's voice had an accusing tone as if it were entirely John's fault that the detective couldn't figure out Moriarty's next move. John sighed and pointedly resumed reading his newspaper. He managed to read two more sentences when suddenly a pale hand grabbed the newspaper from him and a frowning face appeared in its place.
“How can you just sit there and read the newspaper? How did he do it? Why? What possible scheme could have been served by announcing his survival on television?”
With the last sentence, the detective grabbed him by the shoulders and started to shake him. Now it was John’s turn to shoot a deathly glare his friend’s way. The doctor placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders in turn.
“Calm down, Sherlock.”
“I AM CALM!”
Sherlock seemed surprised himself at his outburst. He quickly let go of John's shoulders and sat down heavily on the floor in front of the couch.
John took a closer look at his friend. He noticed the dark circles under his eyes and his complexion, which was pale even by Sherlock's standards.
“When did you last sleep?”
“Sleeping is negligible.”
“Sherlock.”
There was an unmistakable note of warning in John's voice.
Sherlock looked up at John and for the span of a heartbeat John thought he saw something like helplessness flash in the detective’s eyes. It was gone so quickly that he doubted he had seen it all.
“How am I supposed to sleep when I know that”, he pointed theatrically at the board on the wall behind him, “is staring me in the face, mocking me.”
John thought he heard a pleading edge in Sherlock's next words.
“Help me, John. Conduct the light! Give me the piece that will make everything fall into place.”
The doctor sighed again, got up slowly from his chair and walked over to stand in front of the wall. His eyes roamed over the board, from the picture of Joe Biden to an article on the increased import of candy to the U.K., on to a post-it which had simply “tuna” written on it. There was no apparent connection.
He contemplated that maybe this board was proof that Sherlock's brain had finally thrown in the towel, much like an overclocked computer. He looked down at the detective and gave a helpless shrug.
Sherlock gave a groan and rubbed his hands over his eyes.
“I know the answer is there, but I simply cannot connect the dots.”
In the short span of their conversation, John had moved on from feeling slightly annoyed to mostly concerned. He wanted to help his friend, but he didn't know what to do. The dynamic between them had changed drastically and he wholeheartedly wished things could go back to the simple adventure of their first weeks together.
He dropped to the couch next to where Sherlock was sitting on the floor. On an impulse he didn't question, he put his left hand on the detective’s head and slowly drew his fingers through his curls. He could feel Sherlock tense at the action and almost withdrew his hand again immediately.
Instead, he started to slowly massage Sherlock's scalp. After a few seconds of this, he saw the detective visibly relax, sagging against the couch. Encouraged by this, John added his other hand and started to massage Sherlock's head in earnest.
John told himself that he was just helping his friend think. He vaguely remembered that scalp massages could improve the blood flow to the brain. Or something.
By now, the detective had melted completely against the couch and was making a sound somewhere in between a satisfied hum and a purr. John was fascinated by his reaction. He put a bit more pressure into it and slowly moved his fingers down to Sherlock's neck. He was rewarded with a sound that was most definitely a moan.
John readjusted his sitting position, since he was turned at an awkward angle on the couch. While he moved, his eyes strayed and with a start he saw that there was a considerable tenting in the detective's tight-fitting trousers.
John thought that he should probably be concerned about this development. But for some reason, he felt thrilled rather than disturbed. He had caused this. With nothing more than a massage. John remembered the conversation with Mycroft in Buckingham palace and wondered how much truth had been in his words. Sherlock certainly seemed extraordinarily susceptible to his touch.
The doctor moved his hands down to his friend's shoulders and felt some tension left there. In their current position, he couldn't massage Sherlock's shoulders properly. John made a decision. He removed his hands, which earned him a small noise of complaint from the detective.
John stood up and looked down at his friend.
“Take your shirt off.”
At that, Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he looked at the doctor with a weird mix of expressions on his face. John saw fear, arousal and a flicker of hope.
“Take your shirt off and lie down on your stomach on the couch. Your neck and shoulders feel almost twisted in a knot and I think it's time you relaxed a bit.” Almost defensively, he added, “Could help you wrap your head around the case.”
The detective seemed to struggle with the decision for a long time, than he almost imperceptibly shook his head.
“I would rather keep my shirt on. I'll lie down on the bed, which will give you better access.”
He then vanished into his bedroom without taking another look at John.
The doctor stood alone in the living room and took a steadying breath. He wondered where this was going. And where he wanted it to go. Then he stopped thinking and followed Sherlock into the bedroom.