Father, Not A Detective

Chapter Five: Surprisingly Okay

Instead, Helena burst out in a wailing cry, very rudely interrupting their moment. John closed his eyes with an annoyed sigh and knitted his eyebrows together. He pulled away slowly, as hard as that was, and looked down at his child, silently cursing under his breath.

Sherlock opened his eyes and blushed harder. He grasped his hands behind his back and opened his mouth, as if to say something, but the words wouldn't come out. And just like that, the walls that he had built up his entire life, to keep him safe and isloated, locked back into place, with extra security. He quietly, but quickly, made his way out of the room. He immediately started pacing the living room, his face in his hands. 'Stupid. Idiot." He hissed at himself. He scratched his head and slapped his cheeks, trying to get his brain back to normal. Earlier, it went all fuzzy, like something was blocking his thoughts. The only thing he could think to do, to rid himself of these feelings, was to sit at his laptop and make it look like he's doing something. Make it look like he'd completely forgotten about what happened earlier. But, how could he? His fingers stopped typing abruptly and he felt his face warm again as he thought about what happened.

That night, John couldn't leave Helena's room. How could he? He'd almost kissed his best friend. Instead of going to his room, he stayed with his daughter, silently pacing the floor as she fell back to sleep in his arms. He sat in the rocking chair, after putting Helena back in her crib, and rubbed the space between his eyebrows, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

Sherlock stayed up the majority of the night, working on the case. His fingers worked the keyboard to John's laptop as he researched and wrote down possible deductions. He'd decided it best to head to bed, seeing as most of the deductions didn't make any sense anymore. His notes said things like "interogate the cat' and "check their DVR". It took him a while to realize that John hadn't come out of Helena's room. God, had it really been that embarrassing? Yes.

Sherlock huffed and lifted tiredly out of his chair. He peeked into Helena's room and noticed John, asleep in the rocking chair. Leaning his head against the door frame, he sighed and smiled softly down at the ground. Sherlock couldn't help but wonder what John thought about the whole incident they had earlier, and if he'd meant for it to go any further. He couldn't decide if, he himself, wanted them to continue with their ordeal but, they'd find out sooner or later. Sherlock peeked into Helena's crib and smiled to see her peacefully sleeping, her tiny chest rising with each slow breath she took. Small snores escaped her lips, which warmed Sherlock's heart. Sherlock turned and smiled half-heartedly at John. He took a blanket and threw it over his friend before he headed to his own room. He plopped down on the bed, fully clothed, the clock read 4:30 in the morning.

A time in the morning where "friend" didn't seem like the right title for John anymore.

John sat in his chair and wiggled his nose as sleep slowly left his body, allowing him to be freed with consciousness. He stretched his legs as far as they could reach and felt the fabric of the blanket he hadn't remembered settling into, scratch against his jean restricted legs. He huffed. Not even in my pj's. John Watson wasn't one, in particular, to fall asleep in his day clothes. He sat up and sighed with his eyes closed. Sherlock must have...

"Dammit." John cursed silently, carefully not to wake Helena, and got up, tossing the blanket neatly over the back of the rocking chair. He left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar, and tiptoed to the end of the hallway. Sherlock's door was cracked a few centimeters so, John peeked in. And for some odd reason, he felt upset with himself. Letting Sherlock fall asleep in his clothes. He'd usually be the one to remind him to get into his dressing gown at night. Sherlock would whine and complain, like a child, most nights. But sometimes, when he was too tired to complain, he'd huff and stamp to his room and come back out, five minutes later, and had only taken off his blazer, and thrown on a robe. But, nonetheless, it brought a smile to John's face.

John hadn't realized that he'd leaned into the room and stood on a soft spot on the floor, causing a nice and loud "crreeeaaaaakk" to escape from underneath him. He sucked in a breath, and watched as Sherlock turned in his sleep with furrowed brows. A small grunt came from the back of Sherlock's throat, making John giggle to himself. A bit too loudly, at that.

"J-John?"

Shit. Red flag, abort, abort. John moved in the door frame, in and out of Sherlock's room, wondering if he should stay or go.

John stepped into the room slowly, not letting the air escape his lungs. He moved closer and stood at the side of Sherlock's bed, his fingers twitching and stretching (which normally happened in tough or uncomfortable situations).This situation couldn't be more awkward. Standing at the side of your best-mates bed, whom you'd almost snogged, and now the man is muttering your name in his sleep.

"Sherlock?" John sat at the corner of Sherlock's bed. He'd never really been this far into Sherlock's room. The time when Sherlock fell out of bed after being drugged by Irene Adler and that one time Sherlock made John go into Sherlock's room because he was "Too busy thinking to get his socks" were the only exceptions. Well, he had almost kissed him, the least he could do was help him out of his shoes.

In the midst of John struggling with the laces, Sherlock had started to slowly awaken. He'd felt something tugging at his feet, so he turned his head and realized it was John. His eyebrows were knitted together in strong concentration as his fingers picked carefully at Sherlock's shoelaces. John removed the shoes and set them down on the floor gently, before standing up and leaning over Sherlock to remove his blazer.

Sherlock awakened a little more and pulled his arms out of his sleeves. He groaned sleepily and plopped his arms back down on the mattress, muttering "If you wanted me to take my clothes off, you could have just asked." against his pillow.

John smiled and chuckled quietly to himself as he worked off Sherlock's blazer and folded it nicely at the foot of his bed.

Sherlock was wearing John's favorite shirt. That nice dark purple one that contrasted beautifully against Sherlock's pale, glowing skin, the buttons almost struggling to hold onto their stitches with every stretch and turn of Sherlock's body. Those soft curls fell over his forehead just the right way, complimenting his strong brow line, and those stupid cupid's bow-shaped lips. Those damn beautifully curved lips. That gorgeously formed mouth, sitting partly gapped, perfectly taunting with every carefully chosen word that slipped so effortlessly from behind it. John always watched Sherlock's lips, even though he'd never really found himself doing so. He'd never thought anything of it, and when he did, he didn't question it. It felt too natural, looking at Sherlock. Nothing odd or uncomfortable about it.

Not anymore.

He sighed with a smile and sat back at the edge of the bed. He found himself not really wanting to leave and he only hoped that Sherlock would let him stay. Even if it was for just a little while longer. Something about Sherlock being sleepy set John's mind at peace, and made him feel safer. It made him feel that if Sherlock was relaxed, than he could be relaxed with him.

John was wearing Sherlock's favorite jumper. The oat colored one, with the zig-zagged stitches that pulled over his chest and stomach in just the right way. The color flattered his once sun tanned skin. His hair still cut in the same military manner than when they first met, his brows furrowed naturally together as they often did, giving him a sort of innocence, much like a child. His thin, yet alluring, lips were turned at the corners, giving a sort of reassuring smirk. A comforting smolder, in which Sherlock felt greatly overwhelmed by. That invitingly pursed mouth, sitting playfully pulled together, positively taunting with each construction of wise direction in which Sherlock could follow on command. Sherlock always watched John's lips, even though he'd never really found himself doing so. He'd never thought anything of it, and when he did, he didn't question it. It felt too natural, looking at John. Nothing odd or uncomfortable about it.

Not anymore.

Just a little bit closer, you guys... ;) Let me know what you guys think! I'm IN LOVE with this chapter and I hope you all loved it too! Comments, vote-- You know what to do :)

Love, Zoe