Work Text:
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Prompt: *takes hand* “It’s for an experiment.”
“Sherlock, why are there thumbs in the microwave?”
“It’s for an experiment!”
“Sherlock, why is there a mannequin hanging from the rafters?”
“It’s for an experiment!”
“Sherlock, stop replacing my tea with something else!”
“It’s for an experiment!”
John sighs, resolving to keep his tea in his room—not that it would stop Sherlock from doing whatever it was he was doing—but it would give him a little more peace of mind. Honestly, at their first meeting, Sherlock had said that he played the violin and sometimes didn’t talk for days on end, that potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.
Those were definitely not the worst things about being flatmates with Sherlock Holmes.
Not that John likes to focus on the bad things—well, at least not consciously. One of his many therapists before he found his current one had speculated that he had a tendency to, quote: ‘let his thoughts run rampant in order to simulate a stressful environment.’
Which—well, alright, fair enough, but it’s not like he needs to, not with his current flatmate.
Life with Sherlock Holmes was never boring, never mundane. It was gunshots at five a.m., city chases that lasted miles, death-defying acts, and—
“How many experiments are you running right now?” John picks up the roll of paper towels and nudges the tin of not-tea away from him, opting for a coffee instead.
Sherlock barely glances up from his microscope. “Seven.”
“Seven?”
John glances around. The tea…the bacteria culture on top of the microwave…whatever was in the microwave…
“I can only see three.”
“That’s because you see but do not observe.”
“Fine,” John huffs, “four if I get to count whatever you’re doing with the microscope.”
“Very good, John.”
John turns away, trying to hide the flush Sherlock’s words bring to his face. Knowing his flatmate, it’s probably futile. Sherlock can probably tell by his posture or the shake of his hands.
(He can, but don’t worry about it.)
“What about the other three?”
“I am running an experiment at Bart’s to determine the coagulation of blood when exposed to different levels of radiation.”
“Wh—okay.” John takes a sleeve of bread down from on top of the fridge and gives it a once over. Looks fine. He pops two pieces in the toaster. “And what else?”
“A social experiment. Lestrade has insisted that I be given a ‘regular team’ when we go to work, in order to ‘decrease the number of distractions.’”
“Well, that sounds…good?”
“It’s a smooth cover-up for the fact that the majority of his staff are refusing to attend their normal duties in favor of attending the crime scene we are currently at.”
“You mean the crime scene you are currently at,” John corrects, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
Sherlock finally glances up from his microscope, brow furrowed. “We are both at the crime scene, how does—“
“Because they don’t come to see me,” John replies, smoothing margarine over the slices of toast, “they come to see you.”
“Why?”
John huffs, picking up the plate of toast. “Because you’re incredible, Sherlock. People want to see you work.”
John sets the plate of toast at Sherlock’s elbow and disappears into the living room. Behind him, he hears the quiet munching as Sherlock gets back to work. John smiles, settling himself in his chair with his mobile.
Me: really greg ‘regular team’ was the best you could come up with?
Greg: like he doesn’t actually know what i’m doing. gotta keep it formal for the books, yeah?
Fair enough. John goes into his email and starts browsing. As he scrolls, his mind drifts back to the things about living with Sherlock Holmes. The cases, the violin, the experiments…
Hang on.
“That was six,” John calls over his shoulder, “what about the last one?”
Silence.
“Sherlock?”
He glances over his shoulder. Sherlock’s glued to his microscope, his posture the one that says ‘I am dead to the world only until I can point out something to prove how brilliant I am.’ Well, he’ll get that answer later.
He does, in the form of Sherlock suddenly deciding to accompany him to the grocery store one day.
“Er, alright,” John says, pausing as he pulls on his coat, “why?”
Sherlock rattles off some long paragraph that John’s sure explains everything but also he’s exhausted from a long shift at the surgery and he’s not really got the brainpower to keep up with any of Sherlock right now. So John simply sighs, nods, grabs his keys, and makes his way downstairs, Sherlock bustling behind him.
“I’m guessing you know the way,” he says as they get to the bottom and open the door, “given that you—er, Sherlock?”
“Hmm?”
John stops, holding up his hand that now has Sherlock’s hand in it. “What…er—“
“It’s for an experiment, John.”
Ah. This must be the last one he was talking about. John shrugs, brushes it aside, and walks to the grocery store.
As it turns out, Sherlock does not exactly, er, ‘help’ with the grocery shopping, at least not what John would conventionally think of as helping. Which is, in all fairness, never something he should do when it comes to Sherlock.
For John, two or more people going shopping involves the group splitting up—
“To cover more ground?”
“Shut up, Sherlock.”
—and taking different items in order to get out of the shop as fast as possible. What happens instead is Sherlock remains as John’s side the entire time, holding his hand unless John needs it to push the cart or reach for something. It’s better than what John honestly thought was going to happen—Sherlock dashing madly about the place, insisting they buy things and calling out deductions—and it’s nice to have a taller person to help you reach things from the high shelves.
Then the walk home comes and John’s very confused about the nature of this experiment.
First, because Sherlock insists on bagging.
“I understand things, John,” Sherlock says from the end of the conveyor belt, “and I will do this perfectly.”
John shrugs and pays. Then, Sherlock takes all of the bags into his hands, walking out of the store. John frowns, hurrying to catch up with his flatmate.
“Here,” he says, reaching his hand out, “let me—“
Sherlock doesn’t give him any of the bags, he simply switches to hold all of them in one hand and takes John’s with the other.
“…Sherlock—“
“Experiment, John.”
They walk home holding hands.
In all honesty, it’s far from the worst experiment Sherlock’s ever conducted with him. Instead of waking up at horrible times or having his tea poisoned or being locked in a military base while drugged John just has a more constant shadow. Sherlock will walk with him at crime scenes right next to each other, only letting go of John’s hand when absolutely necessary. He holds it on cab rides, resting on the middle seat between them. He holds it when he’s thinking during long nights, prone on the couch. John doesn’t understand what this experiment is, and honestly, he’s not entirely sure he wants to know.
It’s nice.
Sherlock’s hand is mostly gloved when he takes it, and the supple leather bends nicely under John’s fingertips. He’s not too proud to admit he’s found himself running his thumb over the material absentmindedly a few times. Sherlock never comments. Sometimes Sherlock will use the hand to pull John closer on busy streets, stop him from walking into the path of a car, or let him know when the light has changed. Sometimes Sherlock uses the hand to pull John behind him, shielding him from whatever’s in front of him.
In the privacy of their flat, Sherlock doesn’t wear the gloves. His hands, used to playing the violin and the many experiments he runs, are worn in different ways to John’s. Unlike when they are gloved, Sherlock’s care hand squeezes John’s, runs its fingers over his calluses, lingers on his scars. When Sherlock lies on the couch, it twitches, indicating how hard its brain must be chugging. John always squeezes back.
After a few weeks of this, John finds himself reaching for Sherlock when they move to go somewhere, no longer waiting for Sherlock’s hand to slip into his. The weight is comforting, reassuring. And he would be lying if he said it didn’t make his chest flutter when he felt it against his palm.
He knows what that means.
Sherlock is married to his work, he reminds himself as Sherlock’s gloved hand keeps him from toppling over a crack in the pavement.
It’s not like this means anything, he reminds himself when Sherlock pulls him into the cab by their joined hands.
It’s just an experiment, he reminds himself when Sherlock falls asleep on the couch, his fingers still locked with John’s.
John keeps the warm rushes in his chest to himself and hopes Sherlock doesn’t notice.
(He does, but don’t worry about it.)
In the end, it’s not John who asks, nor is it Sherlock who tells him. It’s Donovan.
“So you two finally decided to make it official?”
She leans against the wall at the crime scene, Sherlock a few feet away, hunched over the body. John frowns.
“What?”
She jerks her chin at Sherlock. “You two. Holdin’ hands like some schoolboys. You made it official then?”
“What? No, no,” John splutters, “that’s for an experiment.”
Donovan’s disbelief pops her gum with a sharp snap. “Thought I told you you should leave him alone.”
“Thought I told you that what I do was none of your damn business.”
It rolls right off the sergeant. She shrugs and turns away. “I’m not the one in denial!”
Sherlock hustles up to him a few moments later, deductions coming off left and right. John listens, marks the important ones, and lets Sherlock take his hand.
That night, when Sherlock wraps up the case and they go home, John hesitates before stuffing his hands in his pockets.
Sherlock notices.
“John?”
“What is this experiment,” John asks, looking up at Sherlock, “seriously, Sherlock, what is it?”
Sherlock pauses, halfway finished with pulling off his gloves. He looks John over, John not bothering to try and hide anything—not that it would work—sure he’s reading every inch of John’s discomfort.
Sure enough, Sherlock finishes pulling off his gloves and coat and hesitantly offers both hands, fingers trembling just the slightest bit. John takes them, letting Sherlock pull them closer together.
“I have noticed,” Sherlock begins, voice no louder than a murmur, “that my performance and overall state are improved whenever you are nearby. Even your presence is enough to…elucidate an increase in productivity. I was curious whether or not physical contact would produce an…exponential correlation.”
Oh.
John wets his lips nervously. “And, er, does it?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “Unclear. At moments it increases productivity immensely, decreasing the acuteness of outside stimuli and allowing for better functions. At others…”
John can’t stop himself from pressing forward when Sherlock hesitates. “At others?”
“At others, it overrides all processes and replaces them with…other suggestions.”
John’s heart stops.
“Other…suggestions?”
Sherlock leans forward slowly, bending his head until their foreheads touch. John’s eyes fall closed, feeling the warm puffs of Sherlock’s breath waft over his nose.
“...John?”
He’s never heard Sherlock sound so small before.
“I’m here,” John murmurs, squeezing Sherlock’s hands, “right here.”
They stand there, foreheads touching, as cars drive past outside and the clock on the mantle ticks.
Yes, the experiments are far from the worst thing about living with Sherlock Holmes, John decides, although he does wonder if Sherlock is as nervous about what’ll happen next as he is.
(He is, but don’t worry about it.)