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It was a particularly uneventful day thus far.
Nothing of interest took place, much less a bloody case. It had only been a week since their last encounter with London's latest murderous darling, yet it felt like months to both of them.
Now John stood patiently in the kitchen, waiting for the water to boil so he could make some nice tea for him and Sherlock to enjoy. He had managed to keep Sherlock docile enough to ensure he wouldn't shoot up the wall again, might as well put a cherry on the cake.
The moon hung high in the night sky, only a few clouds surrounding it—a rare sight to behold in a country as gloomy as England. The stars, too, shone brightly. Clouds began to gather on the other side, though, likely indicating a storm to be imminent.
The boiler began to whistle, alerting John, who then turned it off and poured it in two delicate teacups, which immediately filled the house with the familiar, pleasant aroma of late-night tea.
Sherlock lay vacantly on the couch, as if patiently anticipating for John to come over and bring him his tea. He opened one eye when he heard the kitchen light being turned off followed by John's firm footsteps, and smiled briefly when he handed him his tea.
John took a seat on his own armchair, sighing as he did so. He left the tea on the table next to him, and stared off into space for a bit.
"Distracted, doctor?" Sherlock teased with a lopsided grin, sipping his tea eagerly once he sat up properly.
John let out a snigger. "The clouds are gathering quickly. Might rain soon."
"Welcome to London," Sherlock replied; clearly referencing their first case together. His smile devolved into a fit of giggles, low when paired with John's higher ones.
This was John's favourite part about cohabitation in 221B with Sherlock—not just the danger that followed them in every situation, but also the domesticity and safety the two felt around one another. John was sure it was mutual, didn't even need to discuss it.
Sherlock was about the same outside and inside the flat. From time to time, however, a gentler, more human side of him shone with a blinding light, almost enough to make John compare his flatmate to the bloody Sun.
And John was entirely and undoubtedly obsessed with it.
"Any new emails?" John asked a few minutes of comfortable silence later. "From Greg or—"
"Who?" Sherlock furrowed his brows, glaring at John in that way which screamed 'I don't know what the fuck you're talking about and I demand to'.
John rolled his eyes playfully. "Why do you never remember Lestrade's name?"
"Oh, wasn't it Graham?"
"No," John shook his head patiently.
"Godfrey?"
"No—"
"Hm. Gareth?"
John had to bite back a cackle. "Sherlock—"
"It's George, isn't it?"
Now John actually wheezed. "It's Greg!"
"Ah," Sherlock breathed, shifting his gaze to the ceiling. "At least I remembered the first letter correctly."
"Yeah, because Greg would appreciate that for sure."
Sherlock smirked and turned his attention back to John. "Who?" he repeated, a teasing lilt to his voice now.
John laughed again. "Not the point—did you receive any emails from Lestrade or any potential client?"
"Oh, John, you always take the longest to get to the point," Sherlock sighed, though there was no bite to it. John was about to interrupt him, but Sherlock was faster. "No, I haven't received a single email today. Not even a fake spam email from NatWest. Those constantly tell me my bank account's at risk of suspension or something of the sort."
"Even those people had something better to do today," John said with a smirk of his own. He sipped his tea. "Do you want takeout? Haven't gotten any in a while."
Sherlock hummed. It was that neutral hum, unclear if it's agreement, rejection or some secret third option—and they usually drove John crazy.
Not tonight, though.
"I'm ordering some for you too, then. Chinese?" John said, already pulling up his phone.
Sherlock hummed again, this time clearly agreeing. His fingertips had found their way below his chin in what John would call his 'thinking pose', and John couldn't help but admire him for a few fleeting seconds.
It was then John glanced behind the sofa and noticed raindrops begin to appear on the windows. He sighed audibly, grabbing Sherlock's attention as he presumably exited the premises of his Mind Palace.
"Everything alright?" he asked cautiously.
John ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, all's good—except the rain starting to pour down."
Sherlock shrugged. "I assume this won't be a problem. We're practically stuck here whenever there's no case."
"Not exactly stuck, we can leave at any time," John replied.
"I do feel restrained when there are no active cases. I've mentioned it before, stagnation is my greatest enemy and I hate putting up with her."
"Her?" John's interest was piqued. "Stagnation's a 'she' to you?"
"Yes," Sherlock hissed softly. "An opponent worthy of the title. A mistress who's wrapped me around her finger," he added with a chuckle.
The two of them were in oddly chipper moods, and neither could find it in them to complain about the other. Such flowing conversations were scarcely as weightless as they were now, and both men wanted to value it while they still could; the calm before the storm (quite literally, in this case).
John finalised his order, sighing as he put his phone away. "I just hope the poor bloke won't be out in the heavy rain trying to deliver this here."
"You could tip him extra, make him feel this was worth it," Sherlock quickly retorted.
"I guess so," John said, looking at Sherlock for a few seconds with a face he'd probably describe as utterly dumbfounded.
Sherlock's eyes were tightly shut, hands in front of his throat. His long legs were crossed, and his eyebrows were creased in deep thought. The speeds at which this man shifted from reality to his Mind Palace and back were truly remarkable.
John shrugged to himself and pulled up his laptop from its place on the floor beside him, opening it to check his blog.
He liked this part of their cohabitation, too; the comfortable stretches of silence, the strings of conversation they can easily pick back up if they so desire. Yes, their fun banter had come to an end—but it was not a difficult task to restart it, perhaps in even greater a form.
Sherlock looked completely immersed in... whatever he was up to in there, and John smiled at him before shifting his gaze back at his laptop. OK, the visitor count had remained the same as a half-hour ago, some posts had extra comments from his sister...
A white light flashed through the window, temporarily bracing John for the worst. He looked out and realised it was just lightning, which meant he was to expect thunder soon.
He shook his head and gazed emptily at his computer screen. He bit back a grin at the sight of Sherlock in that deerstalker, having grown rather fond of the hat (though he'd rather accept another bullet over telling him that).
He scratched at the back of his neck for a few moments, contemplating where the sudden urge to itch it came from.
He temporarily glanced at Sherlock, took in his almost-somnolent state, nodded resolutely and focused on the blog. What was he meant to do again—?
A clap resounded in the flat, and John was unfazed by his ability to be able to tell the approximate time difference between light and sound.
Sherlock had rambled on and on about it once; "light travels far faster than sound, being able to orbit the Earth 7.5 times within a single second. Sound waves are not that swift, only making it to 0.00085 times per one second, which also explains the delay between the lightning strike and the actual sound of thunder."
God, John could listen to him talk all day—doesn't matter what the subject would be, even just hearing his voice for that long sounded good enough.
Sherlock's hands now rested on his stomach, and he had this... tranquil look on his face John wasn't used to seeing on him. Unless he was asleep, of course, but that hardly ever happened. His breathing evened out further as it went, and John was almost convinced his flatmate had fallen asleep.
That is, until a loud clap suddenly brought 221B's power down alongside it.
Sherlock's eyes snapped open instantly, body rising up like a corpse in a horror movie. He looked around frantically, body steadying when he settled for looking at John.
"The power went out," John said apathetically, as if he couldn't state anything more obvious. He closed his laptop and put it back on the floor, crossing his arms and staring back at Sherlock's pale eyes. "No idea how close the strike was if it was this loud and cut the power."
"I had just reached the conclusion that Lestrade probably sent me an email while you were ordering our food," Sherlock facepalmed.
"Just when I wanted to send an email or two to Stamford myself," John murmured.
Lightning struck as Sherlock turned his head, the only light in the dark room. "We'll have to wait until the power comes back on."
The way the light fell upon his angled face was nothing short of astonishing, and John suddenly wondered if Sherlock had somehow bribed nature into accentuating those damn cheekbones as much as physically possible.
Mrs Hudson's voice from downstairs was the next thing they heard, accompanied by a softer one (presumably Mrs Turner paying her a visit). Sherlock and John kept staring at one another, perfectly capable of making out each other's silhouettes and not at all phased by this stupid thunderstorm.
Rain began to pour properly on the closed windows, making the bright spots on Sherlock's skin also reflect the descending raindrops.
He looked as breathtaking as he always did, in John's opinion.
He'd never say that out loud, of course, with a man married to his work and everything—even so, no one can stop him from thinking about it.
Even as both they slowly came to their senses, their eyes didn't dare move away. "You," John began, licking his lips for a second try, "you should probably find some candles to light. I don't know where you've put those and the matches, so—"
"Of course," Sherlock blurted, abruptly getting up from the couch and making his way toward the kitchen drawers. He scrambled around, looking for the right handle for a good few seconds, then rose triumphantly when he found both the candles and the matches. "Yes!" he exclaimed.
He lit a candle with a match, simple as could be, and put it on the kitchen counter. Table was occupied, after all. Too much glass (and, quite possibly, various chemicals) for him to risk putting anything involving fire near it.
John watched on curiously, eyes trailing Sherlock's as he approached with another lit candle in hand. He gave it to John carefully, their fingers briefly touching.
Another flash of lightning illuminated both of their faces.
"Thanks," John said blankly, not looking away as he put the candle on the table beside him.
Sherlock couldn't trust his voice to remain steady, so he just opted to nod.
Sherlock remained rigid, staring holes into John's eyes, and John only stared back. Sherlock stood awkwardly over the side of the armchair, the darkness making him look taller in some way.
The voices from downstairs were still audible, albeit toned down, yet those and the rain pouring sounded like distant static to the both of them.
"You alright?" John blurted out, almost regretting it the second the words left his mouth.
"What—? Oh, yes, yes, I'm alright," Sherlock speedily replied. "Just peachy," he added sarcastically.
John arched an eyebrow, and Sherlock just squinted his eyes and sat right across him in his own armchair, the leather sticking to his hands immediately.
Thankfully (at first), the moon was too bright for them to even need lights in the first place; now that the storm took over, though, they both noticed candles had become a necessity.
"Aren't there any more candles?" John asked.
Sherlock hummed, rising up to sit on the backrest of his armchair. "There are, but I don't think they'd do much. Neither of us are planning to go anywhere besides here or the kitchen, and you can just take the candle from the kitchen if you want to use the bathroom."
John nodded, suddenly unwilling to continue the conversation—see, this is exactly what he meant. Conversations with Sherlock have their magic for sure, but it lasts for a very specific amount of time that John has not yet ascertained.
Half of the time he spends talking to Sherlock is either John getting scolded, John receiving information, John being asked to store information, John being ordered around like some errand boy or... wait, why was Sherlock staring at him like that???
Not entirely unnatural. Sherlock had a tendency to stare, hard, at pretty much anything or anyone. John especially received this treatment rather frequently — well, the two live together — but rarely like this.
Sherlock's hands were in front of his lips now, eyes boring holes into his flatmate's face. Even in the near-pitch blackness of the room, John could see Sherlock's eyes; they were difficult to miss, really.
"You're acting weird," John observed. When that got a head tilt and a sour expression from Sherlock, John elaborated further. "I mean, weirder than usual. Do power cuts mess with your system or something?" he tried to joke.
Sherlock blinked rapidly, looking perturbed at the comment. He didn't dignify it with an answer, only staring harder at John.
John initially mirrored Sherlock and looked deeply into his pale eyes, but found his gaze dropped to his lips one too many times. He abruptly wondered what it'd be like to watch them move as he spoke with fluidity and slipped from topic to topic with effortless ease, a sensation he found he wouldn't have to wait much longer for.
"Your heart rate seems elevated," Sherlock observed with a breathy laugh. "You're not afraid of the dark, are you, doctor?"
John's own heart raced in his rib cage when he actually realised Sherlock's been staring this entire time, not breaking eye contact even once. Lightning struck again, now illuminating Sherlock's back—and, thanks to the position of the armchairs, John's face.
The sudden strike of light did not scare him in the slightest, but his perseverance absolutely did. If he could, he'd probably tackle Sherlock to the floor and snog him senseless in an instant; his almost divine figure made his enticement look justified, John thought fleetingly.
Each time their gazes met felt like the first time in that lab at St Bart's, that same electric shock John felt all over his body when he looked at Sherlock and soaked in every last detail on him.
Yes, John was — very pointedly, too — not gay, but ignoring someone like Sherlock was difficult. Ignoring the fact that said Sherlock was a man was... also difficult, yet not as difficult as he thought it'd be.
He noticed now, though, he didn't really mind Sherlock's being a man. It's not about Sherlock being a man or a woman. No, it was about Sherlock being Sherlock. He'd shag the daylights out of him regardless of what's between his legs or how deep his voice is.
"I'm not afraid," John replied belatedly. "Just... not very focused. The dark tends to do that, much less a bloody thunderstorm." He elected to omit the fact — cleverly — that the reason why he's so distracted is the man he's talking to himself. Mainly, wondering about the feeling of those soft, dark curls under his fingertips.
Sherlock hummed curiously. "Really? Do enlighten me, John," he spoke in that dangerous, dangerous low tone; "what's gotten you so derailed?"
Jesus Christ.
John felt the need to pinch the bridge of his nose, to bang his head against the wall, anything to ground himself and avoid any further lunacy. The power cut was already enough trouble by itself (and Sherlock was a constant when it came to that), he didn't wish for any bisexual panic undertones to get mixed up here in the slightest.
"I guess I'm just," he paused to find the right words. "I'm not used to this," he went with. "I'm not used to the power cutting so suddenly and taking me away from whatever I was doing."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, as if not expecting what John was going to say (he did, of course he fucking did, he always does and John desperately wants to know if he can stop it and how) and finally, finally looked away. His attention was now thoroughly focused on the tacky floral wallpaper around the flat, and he stared at it with a rather offended look—the one that screamed 'I deserve far better than this mess'.
John couldn't tell if he agreed or not.
He simply sat there, head swirling in something caught in between disbelief and serenity — in combination with a mysterious third party he was in no mood to identify — and closed his eyes as he rubbed at his forehead.
Lightning struck again and, this time, the thunder was somehow quick to arrive right behind. John would not get into detail about what that goddamn lighting of Sherlock's face did to him, not again. The thunder, however, held more intensity.
It filled in a blank; a silence neither of them were willing to break; a confession neither of them were ready to make. Each movement from either side could've made the other explode with electric currents, be it intentional or not.
Everything around them became distant, and if he focused enough, John could feel the world disconnect—it was just him and Sherlock, he and the sole planet of his orbit. It helped that Sherlock had begun staring again, this time gentler with his look.
Instead of eyeing John up and down as if dissecting him, his gaze seemed to linger in a tender way. Those eyes John had learned to recognise as cold and distant were the sincerest they've been in a long time, despite the literal storm going on right behind them.
John licked his lips nervously, a movement Sherlock was quick to notice. John, in turn, saw that didn't escape Sherlock's attention, and huffed out an awkward laugh. Sherlock smiled, albeit with a strained expression.
A strike flashed outside again, followed by a thunderous sound not too long after.
"You're staring a lot," John blurted out.
"Am I?" Sherlock asked, apparently clueless as to his extensive study of his flatmate as he kept his eyes as focused as they were before.
"Yeah," he replied with a small pause. "Yeah, you are."
Another strike.
"Hm," Sherlock shrugged casually, as if John had just asked him what kind of takeout they wanted. "I didn't notice," he lied.
"Sure you didn't," John sniggered, seeing right through it.
John managed to get himself to look at something other than his flatmate, even if just for a bit, and picked up his phone to see the time. 23:05 PM, it read.
Dear God above, they had spent the past half-hour doing nothing but exchange looks with each other.
They have too much free time on their hands, John noticed.
Sherlock had begun drumming his fingers on the leather of his armchair. John put his phone away. The drumming stopped.
John sighed. "You alright?"
"I'm fine," Sherlock responded faster than he should've.
"Are you—"
"Boys!" a voice from downstairs called. "Mrs Turner and I need your help with something!"
Sherlock and John both looked towards the door before reverting to each other. "It's Mrs Hudson," John said; oblivious to the fact that was unnecessary to point out.
Sherlock exhaled sharply, a sound John found himself scrambling to memorise as soon as possible. "I'll go help her," he said, already getting up from his seat and reaching for the door.
"I can go do it too, if you'd like," John replied, reaching the door quicker and now standing right in front of Sherlock.
He had taken their height difference into consideration many a time before, of course—but this, this was different. The manner in which they stood together, breaths mingling, lips mere inches apart from meeting; it was all most overwhelming, yet John would confidently say he's never had a better experience.
Sherlock was staring at him again, another look used now as well. He seemed tense, especially since he was looking down at John—and he, accordingly, was looking up at Sherlock. Their shallow breaths resonated in the rainy quiet of the room, touching each other's faces with the softest of caresses.
"I can go," John repeated, his wrist gripping the handle like a lifeline. His eyes went from Sherlock's eyes to his lips and back again and again. "You can stay here if you're not willing to help her."
Sherlock remained silent, his breathing the only sign of life currently discernible on him.
He then took a shy step forward.
Tentative, light like a feather; even so, tremendous in its impact. Their faces were brought even closer, and Sherlock had become daring enough to place a surprisingly warm hand on the back of John's neck. John himself said nothing, of course, sitting back and letting it all happen in spite of his obvious breath hitch.
Sherlock started moving closer, and closer, and closer, until it got to the point where he could feel John's hot breath on his face, John's heartbeat under his fingertips, John slowly leaning in as well to finally unite and resonate as a single unit—
Until there was a knock on the door. "Are you in there?"
Maybe the universe had a vendetta against John, maybe the universe simply did not want him to get laid.
Regardless, Mrs Hudson had found her way upstairs (which goes to show how distracting this stuff can really be—Sherlock normally notices this first and the feeling of breathing on his skin later) and impatiently knocked on the door, rightfully at first, yet John couldn't help but end up a bit frustrated at it all.
Sherlock sighed with the ghost of a grin tugging at his lips as he grabbed John in his arms, turned them both around, and took a second turn by himself to open the door.
And it was right then, as he spoke to Mrs Hudson — who had brought a distraught Mrs Turner behind her — that John realised he was not just fond of Sherlock; no, he was in love with him.
Whether or not he'd ever kiss him to death was a story for another time.