Truths of Great Value: Curiosity
Title: Truths of Great Value
Chapter Title: Curiosity
Author: Bizarity
Rating: R
Pairing: Sherlock/John (eventually)
Word Count: 2,123
Summary: There are some things about Sherlock Holmes that John cannot mention in his blog. After living with Sherlock for six months, John is noticing some things about Sherlock and about himself that he doesn't fully understand.
Warnings: Non-explicit sexual themes.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson do not belong to me, in any of their incarnations. This fic makes use of the characters in the BBC adaptation, but is not intented to profit me in any way.
A subtle thought that is in error may yet give rise to fruitful inquiry that can establish truths of great value. - Isaac Asimov
There are some things about Sherlock Holmes that John cannot mention in his blog. He never reveals Sherlock's failed attempts to predict the fortune cookies they get from the Chinese take-away. Nor does he include any details about Sherlock's brother Mycroft. Sometimes he types these things up, but he always deletes them before publishing. Recently, he's been deleting a lot of references to Sherlock's clothes. The other day, he had to delete a paragraph about Sherlock's purple shirt. A small paragraph, but a paragraph nonetheless. John's never been interested in fashion before, but Sherlock's clothes fascinate him. He's always wearing so many of them; suit, coat, scarf and gloves or pyjamas and dressing gown. Even now, in the middle of summer, John has yet to see Sherlock's arms or legs uncovered. Even more astonishing, they've lived together for six months and John has never once bumped into Sherlock coming out of the bathroom with only a towel across his slim hips, never walked past Sherlock's open door while he was changing his shirt. Sherlock is always dressed, always covered up. Perhaps John is unconsciously mimicking Sherlock's behaviour, because he's been wearing his own dressing gown to and from the bathroom, making sure his door is closed when he gets changed. John's noticed, but he doesn't think anything of it.
One evening in August, John's on his way out the door to see Sarah. He's wearing a shirt and jacket, carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other. It's still sunny outside and hotter than John expected. He can already feel his body heat, trapped by the stiff collar and long sleeves.
“Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson's voice carries from the door of her flat.
“Just me, Mrs Hudson,” John answers. “Did you need something?” He's left plenty of time to get to Sarah's, he can afford a quick conversation.
“Oh, no dear. Don't worry.” She emerges into the hallway, smiling. “Off to see Sarah?” Her gaze is directed at the chocolates and the wine, giving him away. John nods. There is a moment where Mrs Hudson doesn't say anything and the smile has faded from her face. “Don't you think you're trying too hard, dear?” Alarmed at the worried look in Mrs Hudson's eyes, John tugs on his uncomfortable collar.
“Sorry?” He asks, unsure how to tackle the situation.
“Wine and chocolates?” Still puzzled, John frowns. She seems to have made a leap of logic somewhere, and John is struggling to keep up. It's a feeling he's very used to by now. “How long have you been seeing her?”
“A few months,” he replies. Sherlock would envy the look Mrs Hudson is giving him, or laugh at him. Maybe both. It's a look making it utterly plain that she knows he's lying. “...Five,” he admits after a moment. “Five months.”
“You're spoiling her, Doctor,” says Mrs Hudson. After all this time, she still doesn't call him John.
“I've got to go, Mrs Hudson, I'll be late.” She nods and lets him go, still looking a little grim. Walking the few streets to Sarah's flat, John looks down at the chocolates and the wine. When they first started going out, he didn't take her presents. He took her to drinks, dinner, the circus. He paid, of course, but he didn't splash out on extras. In truth, he'd turned up empty-handed to her flat more often than they'd gone out. Now, though, he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her and not brought her something. Sherlock would know. Sherlock would be able to tell him exactly when he'd started talking Sarah presents, would probably be able to explain why he was doing it. John certainly didn't know.
Throughout his evening with Sarah, Mrs Hudson's words echo in John's mind. 'Don't you think you're trying too hard?' They'd chosen a restaurant near Sarah's flat and were sat outside in the setting sunlight. Though John has removed his jacket, he's still too hot. Sarah, on the other hand, is in a short, sleeveless dress and looks perfectly comfortable. The long sleeves of his shirt feel tight around his wrists. 'You're trying too hard,' says Mrs Hudson's voice in his head. Sarah is talking about something, John's not really listening. He nods occasionally and that seems to be enough. He looks down at his blue checked sleeves. If he wanted to dress up for Sarah wouldn't he be wearing less, rather than more? Certainly he had to admit that before he moved into 221B Baker Street, he'd worn a lot more short sleeved shirts and even polo shirts. If it wasn't Sarah influencing his dress sense, what was it?
“John?” Sarah taps his hand, bringing him back to their date. For the rest of the evening, he concentrates his attention on her, not wanting to drift off again. John walks her home from the restaurant but declines her offer to come upstairs. Sarah looks a little disappointed; it's not the first time and John pretends not to notice.
Sherlock is already in pyjamas and dressing gown when John gets home, the windows open to counter-act the summer heat still filling the flat. It's actually hotter than it is outside, and John wants nothing more than to strip down to boxers and a t-shirt. He doesn't, of course. Instead, he drags the grey armchair backwards towards the window and takes a seat. Sherlock is, predictably, stretched out on the couch, eyes closed but John knows he's not sleeping.
“Aren't you hot?” John asks. “It's twenty eight degrees outside.” Opening his eyes, Sherlock scoffs.
“It was twenty eight degrees at two thirty this afternoon. It's now twenty four.”
“You didn't answer the question,” John points out.
“I'm fine.” The tone of Sherlock's voice indicates the conversation is over.
*
One week, and one solved double murder, later John is still wearing long sleeved shirts. He went out and bought himself a light cotton shirt with short sleeves, which remains on the floor of his bedroom in the same Marks and Spencer's bag he carried it home in. Every morning, he sees the bag and is reminded that something in his life is just a little bit off. For another week, he watches Sherlock more closely, listens out for the sounds of the shower turning on or off. Sometimes he even loiters in the doorway of his room, hoping to time it so he can watch Sherlock leave the bathroom. Every single time he manages this, Sherlock is fully dressed. It takes five successful glimpses of Sherlock, slightly damp curls the only sign of his recent activity, before John recognises that Sherlock is not going to walk out wrapped in a towel just because John wants him to.
So he stops for a few days, focusing his energy on not wondering why he's so worked up about seeing Sherlock half dressed. The bag is still there, still letting him know that something is wrong. He tells himself he'll hang the shirt up, throw the bag away but he doesn't get around to it. One morning, standing in the shower, he squeezes his shampoo bottle over his hand and nothing comes out. He swears under his breath and remembers. He'd noticed the day before that he'd run out, he'd even popped to the shop to buy more. When he came home, though, Sherlock had been watching Judge Judy and yelling at the TV. John had joined him and forgotten to unpack his shopping. The shampoo he needs is still sitting in the kitchen. Annoyed, John looks over at Sherlock's shampoo. It's a brand he thinks is supposed to be for women, though he doubts Sherlock would care. He's reaching for it, telling himself that Sherlock won't mind (and that he, John Watson, is enough of a man to wear women's shampoo) when he has a better idea. Shutting off the shower, he reaches for his towel. A moment later, still slightly damp, John walks into the kitchen with his towel wrapped around his hips. He can hear the sound of the violin and knows Sherlock is in there.
He doesn't look up, but is sure he can feel Sherlock's gaze on his skin. He's rarely been so aware of his body. The towel is rough on his hips, there are water droplets sliding down his spine and clinging to his calves. Reaching down into his Tesco bag, he feels exposed. He's breaking some unwritten rule of 221B Baker Street and they both know it. Finally, shampoo in hand, he can't put it off any longer. He turns back to the door, taking in Sherlock's position as he turns. Sherlock isn't looking at him. His head is turned, his gaze on the wall. John's damp skin is suddenly cool. Returning to the bathroom, he finishes his shower and tries not to think about the sense of disappointment that washed over him in that moment.
Nothing about the rest of the day is noticeably different. John worries that Sherlock will react, even punish him for his transgression. He is nervous all day, waiting for the consequences of his audacity but nothing comes. He and Sherlock watch television, go for a walk through Regent's Park, then get fish and chips on the way home. John's half way through his fish when DI Lestrade walks through the door.
“Go away,” says Sherlock, not looking up from his food. John turns to look at him and wonders if, finally, Sherlock's mood is reflecting the events earlier. He's always abrupt with Lestrade but not normally this sharp.
“I've got a case,” says Lestrade. He's standing solid in the doorway.
“It's burglary.” The disdain in Sherlock's voice is palpable but Lestrade doesn't even wince. “Anyway, I'm eating.”
“If it's only a burglary, it shouldn't matter,” Lestrade points out. John smiles at that. Despite all Lestrade's protests, he does know Sherlock well.
“It is only burglary and you don't need me.” John can't tell if the little silence that follows this remark is tense or if he's imagining it.
“It isn't one burglary,” Lestrade announces, “it's two, but nothing of value was taken.” Sherlock props himself up against the armrest of the couch and looks at Lestrade for a long moment. “Tuesday morning, Mrs Lewis in the ground floor flat reported a burglary. We turned up and she told us the burglars took two cushions, her unfinished knitting and a large pot plant.”
“What?” John asks, leaning forward. Lestrade looks at him and nods.
“Wednesday morning, Mrs Ives, on the floor above, calls and reports a burglary. In her case, they took a lamp, four cookery books and a half load of clean sheets.” John frowns, but notices Sherlock is smiling.
“You should check the coffee in the second flat.” Lestrade is frowning too now. John turns in the chair so that he's at a diagonal to Sherlock and Lestrade.
“Check it?” he asks. “For-”
“The coffee,” Sherlock interrupts. “Or the tea, or the milk. Something that would be used frequently.”
“What am I checking it for, Sherlock?” John watches Sherlock's face slowly curl into a smug smile.
“Poison,” he announces with a gleam in his eyes. Lestrade turns without a word and John hears the front door crash shut a moment later.
“What just happened?” John asks. Suddenly it doesn't matter that he is too hot. This is the effect Sherlock has on him, makes him forget physical discomfort and pain because there's adrenaline thrumming through his veins.
“Hm?” Sherlock has already moved on.
“Why would there be poison in the coffee?” John clarifies.
“Oh, that. The first break in was the 1st floor couple looking for something. They didn't find it but they'd already broken the lock so they had to make it look like a robbery. They fooled the police, but not the husband. Husband obviously didn't like that they were making trouble, so he breaks in the next night to lace their coffee with something deadly.” Sherlock doesn't look at John as he rattles off this explanation. John just stares at him until he looks round.
“Amazing,” he says and he sees the smile tug at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. He doesn't ask how Sherlock worked it out. He isn't in the mood for a lesson and he's not sure Sherlock is either. Nonetheless, in that instant their relationship returns to normal. Or, to what has always passed for normal within 221B Baker Street, anyway.
Next Chapter
Chapter Title: Curiosity
Author: Bizarity
Rating: R
Pairing: Sherlock/John (eventually)
Word Count: 2,123
Summary: There are some things about Sherlock Holmes that John cannot mention in his blog. After living with Sherlock for six months, John is noticing some things about Sherlock and about himself that he doesn't fully understand.
Warnings: Non-explicit sexual themes.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson do not belong to me, in any of their incarnations. This fic makes use of the characters in the BBC adaptation, but is not intented to profit me in any way.
A subtle thought that is in error may yet give rise to fruitful inquiry that can establish truths of great value. - Isaac Asimov
There are some things about Sherlock Holmes that John cannot mention in his blog. He never reveals Sherlock's failed attempts to predict the fortune cookies they get from the Chinese take-away. Nor does he include any details about Sherlock's brother Mycroft. Sometimes he types these things up, but he always deletes them before publishing. Recently, he's been deleting a lot of references to Sherlock's clothes. The other day, he had to delete a paragraph about Sherlock's purple shirt. A small paragraph, but a paragraph nonetheless. John's never been interested in fashion before, but Sherlock's clothes fascinate him. He's always wearing so many of them; suit, coat, scarf and gloves or pyjamas and dressing gown. Even now, in the middle of summer, John has yet to see Sherlock's arms or legs uncovered. Even more astonishing, they've lived together for six months and John has never once bumped into Sherlock coming out of the bathroom with only a towel across his slim hips, never walked past Sherlock's open door while he was changing his shirt. Sherlock is always dressed, always covered up. Perhaps John is unconsciously mimicking Sherlock's behaviour, because he's been wearing his own dressing gown to and from the bathroom, making sure his door is closed when he gets changed. John's noticed, but he doesn't think anything of it.
One evening in August, John's on his way out the door to see Sarah. He's wearing a shirt and jacket, carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other. It's still sunny outside and hotter than John expected. He can already feel his body heat, trapped by the stiff collar and long sleeves.
“Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson's voice carries from the door of her flat.
“Just me, Mrs Hudson,” John answers. “Did you need something?” He's left plenty of time to get to Sarah's, he can afford a quick conversation.
“Oh, no dear. Don't worry.” She emerges into the hallway, smiling. “Off to see Sarah?” Her gaze is directed at the chocolates and the wine, giving him away. John nods. There is a moment where Mrs Hudson doesn't say anything and the smile has faded from her face. “Don't you think you're trying too hard, dear?” Alarmed at the worried look in Mrs Hudson's eyes, John tugs on his uncomfortable collar.
“Sorry?” He asks, unsure how to tackle the situation.
“Wine and chocolates?” Still puzzled, John frowns. She seems to have made a leap of logic somewhere, and John is struggling to keep up. It's a feeling he's very used to by now. “How long have you been seeing her?”
“A few months,” he replies. Sherlock would envy the look Mrs Hudson is giving him, or laugh at him. Maybe both. It's a look making it utterly plain that she knows he's lying. “...Five,” he admits after a moment. “Five months.”
“You're spoiling her, Doctor,” says Mrs Hudson. After all this time, she still doesn't call him John.
“I've got to go, Mrs Hudson, I'll be late.” She nods and lets him go, still looking a little grim. Walking the few streets to Sarah's flat, John looks down at the chocolates and the wine. When they first started going out, he didn't take her presents. He took her to drinks, dinner, the circus. He paid, of course, but he didn't splash out on extras. In truth, he'd turned up empty-handed to her flat more often than they'd gone out. Now, though, he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her and not brought her something. Sherlock would know. Sherlock would be able to tell him exactly when he'd started talking Sarah presents, would probably be able to explain why he was doing it. John certainly didn't know.
Throughout his evening with Sarah, Mrs Hudson's words echo in John's mind. 'Don't you think you're trying too hard?' They'd chosen a restaurant near Sarah's flat and were sat outside in the setting sunlight. Though John has removed his jacket, he's still too hot. Sarah, on the other hand, is in a short, sleeveless dress and looks perfectly comfortable. The long sleeves of his shirt feel tight around his wrists. 'You're trying too hard,' says Mrs Hudson's voice in his head. Sarah is talking about something, John's not really listening. He nods occasionally and that seems to be enough. He looks down at his blue checked sleeves. If he wanted to dress up for Sarah wouldn't he be wearing less, rather than more? Certainly he had to admit that before he moved into 221B Baker Street, he'd worn a lot more short sleeved shirts and even polo shirts. If it wasn't Sarah influencing his dress sense, what was it?
“John?” Sarah taps his hand, bringing him back to their date. For the rest of the evening, he concentrates his attention on her, not wanting to drift off again. John walks her home from the restaurant but declines her offer to come upstairs. Sarah looks a little disappointed; it's not the first time and John pretends not to notice.
Sherlock is already in pyjamas and dressing gown when John gets home, the windows open to counter-act the summer heat still filling the flat. It's actually hotter than it is outside, and John wants nothing more than to strip down to boxers and a t-shirt. He doesn't, of course. Instead, he drags the grey armchair backwards towards the window and takes a seat. Sherlock is, predictably, stretched out on the couch, eyes closed but John knows he's not sleeping.
“Aren't you hot?” John asks. “It's twenty eight degrees outside.” Opening his eyes, Sherlock scoffs.
“It was twenty eight degrees at two thirty this afternoon. It's now twenty four.”
“You didn't answer the question,” John points out.
“I'm fine.” The tone of Sherlock's voice indicates the conversation is over.
*
One week, and one solved double murder, later John is still wearing long sleeved shirts. He went out and bought himself a light cotton shirt with short sleeves, which remains on the floor of his bedroom in the same Marks and Spencer's bag he carried it home in. Every morning, he sees the bag and is reminded that something in his life is just a little bit off. For another week, he watches Sherlock more closely, listens out for the sounds of the shower turning on or off. Sometimes he even loiters in the doorway of his room, hoping to time it so he can watch Sherlock leave the bathroom. Every single time he manages this, Sherlock is fully dressed. It takes five successful glimpses of Sherlock, slightly damp curls the only sign of his recent activity, before John recognises that Sherlock is not going to walk out wrapped in a towel just because John wants him to.
So he stops for a few days, focusing his energy on not wondering why he's so worked up about seeing Sherlock half dressed. The bag is still there, still letting him know that something is wrong. He tells himself he'll hang the shirt up, throw the bag away but he doesn't get around to it. One morning, standing in the shower, he squeezes his shampoo bottle over his hand and nothing comes out. He swears under his breath and remembers. He'd noticed the day before that he'd run out, he'd even popped to the shop to buy more. When he came home, though, Sherlock had been watching Judge Judy and yelling at the TV. John had joined him and forgotten to unpack his shopping. The shampoo he needs is still sitting in the kitchen. Annoyed, John looks over at Sherlock's shampoo. It's a brand he thinks is supposed to be for women, though he doubts Sherlock would care. He's reaching for it, telling himself that Sherlock won't mind (and that he, John Watson, is enough of a man to wear women's shampoo) when he has a better idea. Shutting off the shower, he reaches for his towel. A moment later, still slightly damp, John walks into the kitchen with his towel wrapped around his hips. He can hear the sound of the violin and knows Sherlock is in there.
He doesn't look up, but is sure he can feel Sherlock's gaze on his skin. He's rarely been so aware of his body. The towel is rough on his hips, there are water droplets sliding down his spine and clinging to his calves. Reaching down into his Tesco bag, he feels exposed. He's breaking some unwritten rule of 221B Baker Street and they both know it. Finally, shampoo in hand, he can't put it off any longer. He turns back to the door, taking in Sherlock's position as he turns. Sherlock isn't looking at him. His head is turned, his gaze on the wall. John's damp skin is suddenly cool. Returning to the bathroom, he finishes his shower and tries not to think about the sense of disappointment that washed over him in that moment.
Nothing about the rest of the day is noticeably different. John worries that Sherlock will react, even punish him for his transgression. He is nervous all day, waiting for the consequences of his audacity but nothing comes. He and Sherlock watch television, go for a walk through Regent's Park, then get fish and chips on the way home. John's half way through his fish when DI Lestrade walks through the door.
“Go away,” says Sherlock, not looking up from his food. John turns to look at him and wonders if, finally, Sherlock's mood is reflecting the events earlier. He's always abrupt with Lestrade but not normally this sharp.
“I've got a case,” says Lestrade. He's standing solid in the doorway.
“It's burglary.” The disdain in Sherlock's voice is palpable but Lestrade doesn't even wince. “Anyway, I'm eating.”
“If it's only a burglary, it shouldn't matter,” Lestrade points out. John smiles at that. Despite all Lestrade's protests, he does know Sherlock well.
“It is only burglary and you don't need me.” John can't tell if the little silence that follows this remark is tense or if he's imagining it.
“It isn't one burglary,” Lestrade announces, “it's two, but nothing of value was taken.” Sherlock props himself up against the armrest of the couch and looks at Lestrade for a long moment. “Tuesday morning, Mrs Lewis in the ground floor flat reported a burglary. We turned up and she told us the burglars took two cushions, her unfinished knitting and a large pot plant.”
“What?” John asks, leaning forward. Lestrade looks at him and nods.
“Wednesday morning, Mrs Ives, on the floor above, calls and reports a burglary. In her case, they took a lamp, four cookery books and a half load of clean sheets.” John frowns, but notices Sherlock is smiling.
“You should check the coffee in the second flat.” Lestrade is frowning too now. John turns in the chair so that he's at a diagonal to Sherlock and Lestrade.
“Check it?” he asks. “For-”
“The coffee,” Sherlock interrupts. “Or the tea, or the milk. Something that would be used frequently.”
“What am I checking it for, Sherlock?” John watches Sherlock's face slowly curl into a smug smile.
“Poison,” he announces with a gleam in his eyes. Lestrade turns without a word and John hears the front door crash shut a moment later.
“What just happened?” John asks. Suddenly it doesn't matter that he is too hot. This is the effect Sherlock has on him, makes him forget physical discomfort and pain because there's adrenaline thrumming through his veins.
“Hm?” Sherlock has already moved on.
“Why would there be poison in the coffee?” John clarifies.
“Oh, that. The first break in was the 1st floor couple looking for something. They didn't find it but they'd already broken the lock so they had to make it look like a robbery. They fooled the police, but not the husband. Husband obviously didn't like that they were making trouble, so he breaks in the next night to lace their coffee with something deadly.” Sherlock doesn't look at John as he rattles off this explanation. John just stares at him until he looks round.
“Amazing,” he says and he sees the smile tug at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. He doesn't ask how Sherlock worked it out. He isn't in the mood for a lesson and he's not sure Sherlock is either. Nonetheless, in that instant their relationship returns to normal. Or, to what has always passed for normal within 221B Baker Street, anyway.
Next Chapter