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John wishes he had a friend – other than Sherlock, obviously – close enough to tell him – or her, he’s not picky – what’s troubling him. Mike Stamford is a nice bloke, but he wouldn’t understand – or, more likely, he would understand too much. Greg Lestrade is a cool and understanding fellow once you know him, but telling him that would make their work a bit uncomfortable – or rather, a bit more uncomfortable than usual. Molly would blush and babble something like ‘I wish I had your luck’. Harry…God forbid, John would never hear the end of it. And Mrs Hudson - well, maybe not. As for Mycroft, John is quite sure he already knows; he and his blasted cameras and God complex with a voyeuristic streak.
The point is that last night things got a bit weird with Sherlock. Not that the word 'weird' can really convey the mind-boggling complexity of the situation, but still. Plus, it should perhaps be added that it was a good kind of weird. Very good, actually. But still quite unexpected and a bit troubling. Especially because he was wearing those bloody red pants (laundry day, you see) his idiotic sister gave him as a present the first Christmas after he came back from Afghanistan.
It all began innocently, with a quiet evening at home, a rare and blissfully surprising occurrence. Sherlock had solved a very satisfying case in the late afternoon, and John had decided to blog about it while Sherlock was still if not quite happy, at least in his not-bored-enough-to-shoot-the-wall mood. So, for the sake of brevity and convenience, it is possible to say that Sherlock was in a good mood, so much that he agreed to have pizza for dinner. (The always knowledgeable Angelo had recommended a new pizzeria and he certainly knew a good pizza when he tasted it; not that it really mattered though, since, as Sherlock fastidiously pointed out, John had never once, in his whole life, eaten a pizza that could be considered at least decent by the standards of the average Italian. John decided not to get angry, just because the evening was going so well and he didn’t want to have it spoiled thanks to Sherlock being…well, Sherlock.)
After dinner, John had a second beer while Sherlock played the violin. It all felt wonderfully normal, which for them was such an extraordinary achievement that it might deserve to be narrated on John’s blog for the delight of squeeing fangirls and the nosy cops at the Yard who had been placing bets on the boundaries of their relationship since the day Sherlock brought John along on a case.
Sherlock was playing some lively tunes, and John naturally ended up complimenting him on his skill – he just couldn’t help himself, as usual. And as usual, Sherlock was very pleased by John’s words, probably much more than he cared to admit.
Things were indeed going so well – no texts from Lestrade, no worried clients hurrying up the stairs, no experiments exploding in the kitchen – that John started thinking it was actually too good to be true, and that probably, before the night was over, something was bound to go wrong. (Luckily for us, John is not the one who’s usually good at deductions.)
“You should always be like this, you know?”
“Like this how?” Sherlock asked, turning slightly towards John, still playing.
“In a decent mood, playing nice music, eating like all we poor mortals do...”
“But then I would be boring.”
“No, I don’t think I’d ever find you boring. You’d just be almost the perfect flatmate.” And then John suddenly stopped, shocked at his own words. He knew he had said too much. What the hell was he thinking anyway? And why was he saying these things aloud? In front of Sherlock, on top of that!
Sherlock looked a bit confused at first, but then he smiled.
“What should I do to be the perfect flatmate then?” His tone was rather neutral, but John sensed a hint of naughty playfulness. Sherlock was too clever for his own good, and even if he seemed to know little about genuine feelings and normal relationships, he couldn’t not know what he was asking.
Sherlock stopped playing and put his violin carefully down on the table, leaving John the time to decide what the best answer was.
And John, for his part, had decided that the best course of action was to play dumb.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, but you do.” And Sherlock was suddenly very close; his voice, even lower than usual, had taken a dangerous(ly sexy) edge. “You know what I mean, John. You might have never thought about it before, but you are definitely thinking about it now. And I see the way it is affecting you.”
John didn’t need to be told what Sherlock was checking: pulse, pupils, respiratory rate and all the others signs of sexual excitement. Being on the receiving end of Sherlock’s deductions was always quite intimidating – sometimes John felt Sherlock could read minds – but given the turn their conversation had taken, it was particularly unsettling and unexpected. And frightfully sexy too. It was like Sherlock had turned into a male Irene Adler. And something was suddenly painfully clear: virgin or not, the man could be a bloody tease.
In a matter of seconds they had crossed the fatal border between “friends” and “definitely more than friends”; John found himself with a lapful of warm and moaning consulting detective and Sherlock’s lips sucking his neck as if he had suddenly discovered a latent vampiric nature – which, incidentally, would have been hardly surprising given Sherlock’s looks and habits. John was both very puzzled and very aroused; in the end, he decided he would have a lot of time to be puzzled later and the priority was enjoying the moment. Enjoying the moment meant taking full advantage of Sherlock’s perfect, soft, cupid bow lips and supple body. For his part, Sherlock was wasting no time, and his hands were swiftly undoing the buttons of John’s chequered shirt. By the time John had started lifting Sherlock’s t-shirt, the quick-witted detective was already sucking John’s left nipple and working his belt and jeans open. Through the mist of lust and desire, John remembered that he was wearing those pants, but at that point, he wasn’t really sure he could care.
“Red? Really, John, you’re always full of surprises. I would have expected you to wear more sombre and mature colours, like grey or dark blue; black even.”
“Sherlock, please, tell me this is not one of your bloody experiments or a contrived plot to prove your deductions about my underwear of choice.”
“Of course not, John, don’t be ridiculous. I don’t need this to know that I’m right about your underwear. Still, you clearly own a pair of pants that doesn’t fit into the pattern… It is a lucky coincidence that you’re wearing them today…”
“Oh God, what the hell can you deduce about me from red pants?”
“Oh, a very important thing, something I have missed until now. Something I might have never known about you otherwise.”
“I’m not sure I want to know what it is…”
“Red really looks good on you.”
With that John blushed furiously, giving Sherlock further proof of the fact that red indeed suited him well.