Johnlock

Chapter Five

John's P.O.V.

Since the odd encounter with the biscuit early morning, I still hadn't been able to fall asleep. I tossed and turned in my bed, this way and that, unable to put the incident out of my mind. I glanced at the clock for the sixth time in the same ten minutes. 8:13. Ugh, so close. Sherlock would wake up around eight thirty, and I didn't really know how we would act around each other. I supposed that we would just act normal, whether that was how we felt or not. But I was almost certain that this was just another silly little test that Sherlock had ever so inconsiderately forced me to endure. I hoped it was over. As usual, I was wrong. Unable to put myself back to sleep, I sat up. I stretched, yawning quickly before stifling it and glancing at the window. Bright, early-morning sun filtered through the window, spreading like honey along my bedroom floor. I paused. Honey. Something... something nagged at the edge of my mind. Honey. Hmm...ah yes, I remembered. We were soon to be out of it, and Sherlock would only drink his tea if it had at least a spoonful of honey in it first. And suddenly my thoughts were brought back around to Sherlock. I sighed heavily. I got up and started straightening the bed, fluffing the pillows, making the sheets before I noticed that I had thrown my blanket on the floor. Hmm. I picked it up and it felt rough in my hands. It was coarse compared to Sherlock's. Damn, again. I folded it and placed it on a nearby chair. I walked slowly over to the window and opened it, sticking my arms out slightly to test the temperature. Slightly chilly, but it would warm up during the day. I shut it gently and walked over to my closet. I flung off my shirt and tossed it into the laundry bin. I rifled through my hanging shirts and came across a red shirt that I had been neglecting lately. I threw it on and picked my black jacket off of the end of the bed, slipping it on. Perfect. I looked for a nice pair of jeans and picked out a dark pair. I laid them out on the bed and slid my pyjamas off and put on my jeans. I had just buttoned them when I heard a knock at the door.
"Come in." I said. I was checking my pockets to see if my wallet was in this jacket or not when Sherlock cleared his throat from behind me. I looked around and saw him holding the near-empty jar of honey. He raised his eyebrows and I rolled my eyes. "Yes, yes, Sherlock, I'm buying more honey today." I said, irritated.
"Good." Sherlock said softly. I rummaged through the drawer, still looking for my wallet before I realised that Sherlock hadn't left. I turned to face him.
"Yes, Sherlock, is there something that you're waiting to-" He strode towards me suddenly and stopped in front of me. "Er, Sherlock, if you wouldn't mind moving, I do have to find my wallet still, so-" he cut me off and moved in closer. He leaned over me and snaked his hand inside my jacket, skimming my stomach. I froze, tensing. I felt him slide something into my inside pocket, staring intently, never taking his eyes off mine. I swallowed. His large hand had had to worm it's way into my small pocket to fit and had pushed the end of my jacket all the way behind me, so that his arm was around me. He withdrew his arm slowly, still staring with deep intensity. I wanted to but couldn't bring myself to look away. His hand skimmed the side of my stomach again and I shivered. He stood up straight and strode quickly out of my room. I stood frozen, unable to move. I finally snapped out of it and reached inside my jacket to see what he had slipped inside. I frowned as I felt the familiar, worn leather and drew out my wallet.

Sherlock's P.O.V.

I smirked. I went to the kitchen and sought out a roll from the pantry. I set it on a napkin on the counter and searched through the fridge for butter. I moved aside the four jars containing severed fingers and grabbed the container. I brought it out, and popped open the lid swiftly. As I set it on the counter, I heard the distinctive, soft, padded footsteps that meant John was coming downstairs. I smirked again, bringing to mind the recent memory of gazing into his dark, storm-like eyes. I shook my head and sat down at the counter. I ripped my roll in two and dipped it into the butter. I had already taken a bite out of it when John said, "Sherlock, that's not sanitary." I contemplated how to handle this. I chose a more modern approach.
Gasping and clutching one hand to my chest dramatically, I turned to face John and said sarcastically, "Really? Oh, tell me more, All-Knowing Entity of Household Sanitation!" John snorted and snatched the butter from the counter, methodically sealing it and plopping it back into the fridge. Affronted, I said loudly, "I was still using that, by the way," as John left the room. Something inside of me twinged almost unhappily as John left, leaving me almost wishing that he had paid me more attention. I pushed the new feeling aside and continued to eat my roll plain. I finished it quickly and I threw away my napkin. I walked into the living room to find John reading the morning newspaper. I rolled my eyes. "Anything interesting?" I called out. John glanced over his shoulder at me and went back to skimming the paper.
"Er, no, not yet." I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Perhaps Lestrade will call later?" John said hopefully, re-folding the paper and tossing it into my chair. I groaned, clutching the sides of my head. I leaned my head back and stared at the ceiling a moment before closing my eyes. No case, no cigarettes, no honey, what next? I straightened up and sauntered over to John's chair. I stood beside it, arms crossed, frowning. I stood there for a few moments before John looked up. "Yes, Sherlock. What is it now." He said, not even bothering to sound interested in what I had to say.
"I was just thinking about when I should remind you to go get some honey..." I said casually. John jumped up, slapping his forehead.
"Yes, yes, of course! Ahh, I'm so sorry, that's right, groceries!! I'll be back in a minute, I promise, ok, Sherlock? Bye, don't blow anything up!" I stood watching him as he went blathering on about this and that and how we needed more black tea and honey and raspberry biscuits until I realised that they were all for me. John had little to no use for honey, that was so that I could drink my tea, John was perfectly fine with whatever, I was the one who always wanted black, and John liked the mixed berry scones the best, but my favourite was the raspberry tart. Interesting.
"John." My voice cut through his swiftly like a knife.
"-and we-what, Sherlock?" He asked, stopping mid-sentence. I cleared my throat.
"I think that I'll go with you." I said, trying for casual and instead accomplishing strained. John stared at me.
"No, Sherlock, you don't have to, I'm fine, I can-"
"No, John, really. I want to go. The flat is dreadfully boring when I'm not working a case and when you're not here with me." I said. John stared at me. I stalked off to find my trench coat, face growing warm. I pried it off of the hook by the door and slid it on quickly. I turned to find John still staring at me, until he finally cleared his throat and looked away. My mouth twitched upwards. "Let's go, John, we only have so many hours in a day." He sniffed and scratched his nose.
"Can you just remember everything so I don't have to make a list?" He asked. I nodded. "Good." He said, and came to stand by the door. After a few moments of just standing next to each other, I grew impatient. "Well?" I snapped coldly. John flinched and I instantly regretted being short with him. "Er, what are we waiting for?" I asked kindly.
"Would you, er, care to go first?" John asked awkwardly. I shrugged and walked stiffly out into the hallway, pausing at the stairwell to wait as John locked up. I continued on and heard him walk quietly behind me. I reached the door but as I reached for it, John said, "Ah, no, let me." He reached past me and opened the door. He stood, waiting, holding the door. I blushed slightly when I realised that he was holding the door open for me. I strode quickly through the open door and felt the small pitter-patter of raindrops on my head. A piece of hair fell in front of my eyes and stuck to my forehead, now wet. I glanced at John and saw him glancing up and down the street. He started off down the street and glanced back to make sure that I was following, which of course, I was. John cleared his throat and I prepared myself for painfully awkward small talk. "So what else do we need from the store?" He asked casually. "Honey, black tea, biscuits, rubbing alcohol, haemoglobin-" John cut me off.
"Ah, no, Sherlock, no blood." I sighed.
"-strawberry jam, bread, napkins-"
John cut me off again. "Wait, jam? You don't eat jam. On anything. At all." I stopped. True.
"Well, you eat jam. On anything. At all." I said casually.
He shrugged, "Good point." We kept walking. We reached the grocery store and went prowling about the shelves. We met up at a register and dumped our basket contents onto the conveyor belt. We paid with my card. As we walked outside, lugging our grocery bags along, John said, "Thank you for going with me, Sherlock. It's easier to take this lot home with two people instead of one." I shrugged.
"I suppose." We walked on a little bit in silence before John stopped. I kept walking, unaware. I glanced behind me and my steps faltered. "Why've you stopped?" I asked. John shrugged.
"I think we need to talk." I stared at him questioningly, and strode over to him. "I've just been wondering if this is all some kind of test." He said quickly, staring at the ground. I stared at him.
"Is that so? And what are you referring to, might I ask?" I asked quietly.
"Well, just all the little things that you've been doing. I mean," he glanced up at me before staring at his shoes again, "First it was the biscuit, then the wallet, and now you've come with me to get groceries. I'm just wondering what it's all about, that's all." My blood froze in my veins. I swallowed. John looked up at me and I gave him a cold glare.
"I see. If you want me to stop, all you have to do is ask." I said icily, dumping the grocery bags on the ground. "You can take them home by yourself, yes? I'll be at home, minding my own business."
I turned sharply but before I could go on, John called out, "No, Sherlock, that's not what I meant!" I turned, still staring coldly. "I didn't mean to make you upset, I just wanted to know if it was a test, that's all." I froze again, but this time in regret. I stood in front of him and knelt down to his level. He stared at me through his long lashes before saying, "Can we just go home?" I nodded, bending down to grip the bags I had flung down in misplaced anger. I frowned. At this point, I would either still be angry or have fired a gun. But something about the way John had looked at me, like he hadn't meant to upset me, it had just been a harmless question, made me feel like I was being a prick. I felt instantly sorry for making John feel bad, I knew how hard he worked to put up with my crazy. I hadn't meant to upset him either. We walked home making idle chat about how the weather had turned dreary and how we had forgotten to buy milk. When we got home, as John reached for the door, I dropped a bag, reached out and held it open instead. I nodded into the hallway for him to go on and I could swear I saw him turn slightly pink. I grabbed the bag and popped through the door. John was already upstairs, unlocking the door. I followed him up. He had hung his jacket on the hook and was unpacking groceries on the counter when I set my bags down beside him and started unpacking them. He gave me his empty bags for me to throw away as he started shelving our groceries. I came back and reached for a a container of dish soap and accidentally grasped John's hand instead. I glanced down, thinking. I lifted his hand and laid it palm down on mine. I held his hand for a moment, inspecting it. His hands were worn from hard household chores that I had left to him and Mrs. Hudson, and from working with coarse materials as a doctor in Afghanistan. His fingers were shorter than average, but strong, not brittle. I placed my other hand on top of his and stroked it gently. "Er, Sherlock?" John said, drawing me back to earth. I winced and drew back my hands in surprise. Flustered, I kept shelving the groceries, itching to take his hand again. His hand was worn smooth from continuous work, not thick and rough as one might expect. I placed my hands on the counter and examined them. My fingers were long and thin, nimble and quick, and were used to handling things delicately. My fingernails were short and uneven from neglect. One of my fingers was stained blue at the tip from some chemical I had been reckless with. My hands were smooth and soft, almost girlish. They-suddenly, I felt something brush the side of my hand. I drew back in surprise, but then placed my hand down again, where John began to stroke it again. He slid one hand under mine and stroked my wrist. I watched with mixed emotions. He held my hand in both of his, staring at it intently. I felt my face starting to flush and I looked at the floor. I felt John slide his hands out from under mine and continued to shelve the groceries. I brought my hand close to my face. I saw nothing intriguing, nothing that John would have cause to examine so closely. Or perhaps, he wasn't so much examining my hand as admiring it. I flushed again, and continued to shelve next to John. He finished before me and went up to his room. It was only around ten o'clock. I finished quickly and followed him. I stopped outside his door and hesitated. Perhaps this was being taken too far. I had only meant it as a small examination of John and his feelings. I should've stopped after the biscuit, maybe even after the wallet, but for some reason, I enjoyed it. I flinched inwardly. That was perhaps the most disturbing/disgusting thought I'd ever considered. I steeled myself and rapped sharply with my knuckles. "Come in!" Was the response, so I went in. I found John sitting in his bed, examining his hand. He glanced up and smiled. I let myself smile slightly, and decided my idea was stupid before leaving abruptly.
Halfway down the stairs, I called out through the open door, "I'm going out to grab some lunch and see if Lestrade has anything. I'll be back before eight."
"Alright, I'll just clean up the flat." he said. Immediately, I left, checking my watch. It was ten to eleven, so I had plenty of time to wander the streets on my own.