Idk if this is what you wanted. It will get dirtier.
A chilly updraft rattles the two high windows. The wintry air seeps through the cracks between the window pains. It breaks the protective barrier of heat that surrounds him. Instinctively, John pulls the blanket tighter around his legs. London was having yet another unbearably dreary winter. It would be quite sometime before people accepted these weather extremes as normal -- biting cold in winter, clammy heat in summer. He might never accept them. Each gust of cold wind cuts to the bone. It awakens old war wounds. Stretching his sore leg, he curls deeper into his armchair. John is grateful for the chair's support. It comforts his fevered, almost throbbing flesh. The memories of war surround that wound. He needs to escape within the chair's open arms. He lays his head back. The chair holds him, an inanimate mother wrapped around a lost son. Soon, the television and the wind have lulled him to sleep.
When Sherlock arrives home, the rain has started again. Heavy drops beat a quick pulse against the glass. It overpowers the hum of the television and, for a moment, Sherlock just listens. He's grateful that the rain held off, grateful that he avoided the peak of the downpour. Stripping off his shoes and socks, he lays them neatly near the door. The lingering icy feeling melts on his skin. It is now, as heat returns, that he first notices the television. The rain fades to background noise. It happens faster than Sherlock could explain. Suddenly, the endless chatter of reality television falls on his ears. It is something that John likes to watch, a given for only John uses the television. Sherlock's eyes pass from television screen to John's armchair. At last, his gaze falls upon his flatmate. He's still curled under his flannel blanket, left shoulder pressed at an awkward angle into the leather back.
Sherlock hesitates. He stands still near the door frame, afraid to brook the domestic innocence that enfolds John. He feels almost guilty that he has strayed too long at the pub.He glances at the clock on the mantle piece. It is well after midnight, well after the respected hour for gathering clues. He should have returned earlier. Sherlock takes a step forward. He edges carefully around the furniture, catlike so as not to disturb the other as he reaches to switch off the TV. Sherlock's eyes again look upon John. The worried lines that normally cross his friend's face have relaxed. John looks peaceful, almost protected in his sleep. Sherlock wants to lean forward. He wants to capture that innocence in a kiss, but he resists.
Closing his eyes, Sherlock inhales deeply. He senses the room around him. He remembers John, wrapped in a knit jumper. It is the jumper that always sends Sherlock over the edge. A piece of clothing, such an everyday jumper, should not enthrall him, but it does. He wants to pull it closer and to breathe in all of John. But he cannot. Taking a step backward, until he leans against the bookshelf, Sherlock opens his eyes. Guilt causes him to turn away. He cannot violate this moment, for he knows - it has been far too long since John has slept without a nightmare. It has been far too long, and yet all Sherlock truly wants -- needs -- is to feel that warm flesh against his lips.
John seems to have an endless supply of knit jumpers. He has collected them over the years until they fill his wardrobe. He likes their softness. A warm jumper is his shield against the world. He sits now wrapped in a caramel-colored one. He props his stiff leg against the coffee table. It's not that his leg bothers him; rather, he acts out of habit. John's habits never seem to bother Sherlock. Though, John supposes this is more because he doesn't periodically fall into fits of dissonant violin playing. In comparison, his overflowing collection of jumpers and his stiff leg seem innocuous.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" he asks, glancing at his flatmate.
Sherlock has that distant look in his eyes. He's lost in his own thoughts, caught between his usual morning shuffle to the window and John's caramel jumper. It's rather embarrassing that a jumper should be so adorable on a grown man. To think, it would be so soft in his hands. His tongue brushes his bottom lip. It would be soft as he shifted it over John's head. His hands pressed against John's chest. He could lick the spot just above John's collar.
"Sherlock." John's offering him a steaming tea cup. Sherlock's confused, for tea doesn't fit into his fantasy. "Tea?" repeats John, pushing the cup into Sherlock's hands.
The cup warms Sherlock's hands. He continues his walk to the window. The tea isn't John, but it will do for now.
"Have you heard anything from Lestrade?" John doesn't notice anything peculiar about Sherlock. Things happen faster in Sherlock's mind, quick impulses placed together in a way that not even John can follow.
"No." Sherlock presses his head against the window pane. The cool glass calms his mind. He can almost - stop. Guilt weighs upon his fleeting thoughts. He knows John would agree, if he asked him. He knows, but he cannot admit his own attraction to that damned jumper. Sherlock sips his tea quietly. It is unbelievable that any article of clothing could enfold his flatmate in such an aura of innocence.
A chilly updraft rattles the two high windows. The wintry air seeps through the cracks between the window pains. It breaks the protective barrier of heat that surrounds him. Instinctively, John pulls the blanket tighter around his legs. London was having yet another unbearably dreary winter. It would be quite sometime before people accepted these weather extremes as normal -- biting cold in winter, clammy heat in summer. He might never accept them. Each gust of cold wind cuts to the bone. It awakens old war wounds. Stretching his sore leg, he curls deeper into his armchair. John is grateful for the chair's support. It comforts his fevered, almost throbbing flesh. The memories of war surround that wound. He needs to escape within the chair's open arms. He lays his head back. The chair holds him, an inanimate mother wrapped around a lost son. Soon, the television and the wind have lulled him to sleep.
When Sherlock arrives home, the rain has started again. Heavy drops beat a quick pulse against the glass. It overpowers the hum of the television and, for a moment, Sherlock just listens. He's grateful that the rain held off, grateful that he avoided the peak of the downpour. Stripping off his shoes and socks, he lays them neatly near the door. The lingering icy feeling melts on his skin. It is now, as heat returns, that he first notices the television. The rain fades to background noise. It happens faster than Sherlock could explain. Suddenly, the endless chatter of reality television falls on his ears. It is something that John likes to watch, a given for only John uses the television. Sherlock's eyes pass from television screen to John's armchair. At last, his gaze falls upon his flatmate. He's still curled under his flannel blanket, left shoulder pressed at an awkward angle into the leather back.
Sherlock hesitates. He stands still near the door frame, afraid to brook the domestic innocence that enfolds John. He feels almost guilty that he has strayed too long at the pub.He glances at the clock on the mantle piece. It is well after midnight, well after the respected hour for gathering clues. He should have returned earlier. Sherlock takes a step forward. He edges carefully around the furniture, catlike so as not to disturb the other as he reaches to switch off the TV. Sherlock's eyes again look upon John. The worried lines that normally cross his friend's face have relaxed. John looks peaceful, almost protected in his sleep. Sherlock wants to lean forward. He wants to capture that innocence in a kiss, but he resists.
Closing his eyes, Sherlock inhales deeply. He senses the room around him. He remembers John, wrapped in a knit jumper. It is the jumper that always sends Sherlock over the edge. A piece of clothing, such an everyday jumper, should not enthrall him, but it does. He wants to pull it closer and to breathe in all of John. But he cannot. Taking a step backward, until he leans against the bookshelf, Sherlock opens his eyes. Guilt causes him to turn away. He cannot violate this moment, for he knows - it has been far too long since John has slept without a nightmare. It has been far too long, and yet all Sherlock truly wants -- needs -- is to feel that warm flesh against his lips.
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It comforts his fevered, almost throbbing flesh.
Hmmmmm.
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"Would you like a cup of tea?" he asks, glancing at his flatmate.
Sherlock has that distant look in his eyes. He's lost in his own thoughts, caught between his usual morning shuffle to the window and John's caramel jumper. It's rather embarrassing that a jumper should be so adorable on a grown man. To think, it would be so soft in his hands. His tongue brushes his bottom lip. It would be soft as he shifted it over John's head. His hands pressed against John's chest. He could lick the spot just above John's collar.
"Sherlock." John's offering him a steaming tea cup. Sherlock's confused, for tea doesn't fit into his fantasy. "Tea?" repeats John, pushing the cup into Sherlock's hands.
The cup warms Sherlock's hands. He continues his walk to the window. The tea isn't John, but it will do for now.
"Have you heard anything from Lestrade?" John doesn't notice anything peculiar about Sherlock. Things happen faster in Sherlock's mind, quick impulses placed together in a way that not even John can follow.
"No." Sherlock presses his head against the window pane. The cool glass calms his mind. He can almost - stop. Guilt weighs upon his fleeting thoughts. He knows John would agree, if he asked him. He knows, but he cannot admit his own attraction to that damned jumper. Sherlock sips his tea quietly. It is unbelievable that any article of clothing could enfold his flatmate in such an aura of innocence.
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