Title: Doesn't Know What To Think
Word Count: 350
Summary: The man is a genius, there's no way he can be oblivious to what's happening. There are times when John doesn't know what to think about it.
Author's Note: Okay, I've been useless at this whole updating lark, but I promise you have a plethora of excuses for you all. I had to go through my GCSE's (Nightmare) then summer work (Hell and back. Twice.) and now back to sixth form. But I promise I've been writing like it's going out of style, and I so have missed writing about the boys. So, please accept my apologies, believe my excuses, and I'll try not to do so again. That is, if you haven't given up on me. Yet. Anyway, hope you enjoy.
Doesn't Know What To Think.
"I don't see why you can't do this," John wonders darkly, the scalpel still hovering over the dead flesh – the bloody hand on his kitchen table - and Sherlock still hovering over him.
Sherlock tuts. "Really, John?" He murmurs, the two words drenched in arrogance making John feel about six inches high. Nothing unusual, then. "The results of this experiment could help free a falsely convicted woman. This is vital. A surgeon's hands are needed."
Sherlock sounds urgent, the hand John hasn't realised that his roommate's curved around his shoulder tightens, and more importantly the man has a point. Damn. "Fine."
He can't see Sherlock's grin, but the warm gush of air against his neck is flooded with laughter. John rolls his eyes and lowers the scalpel, Sherlock's instructions being muttered in his ear. As the scalpel mimics the crime-scene photos, Sherlock leans closer, absorbed by the results and deductions he's undoubtedly cataloguing and filing over and over in his head.
John stops breathing. He can't help it. His hand tightens on the implement he holds, his blink-rate increases, and can he be any more obvious? Sherlock's whispering two-to-the-dozen by his ear, cutting himself off in the middle of sentences and repeating words until he stops suddenly and dives his left hand into John's trouser pocket, his long fingers scrabbling frantically. 'Freezing' doesn't do justification to how fast John stills.
Sherlock pulls John's phone from the material and begins texting, seemingly oblivious to his roommate's paralysation, and slides away, leaving John to wonder whether a man that brilliant can possibly be this oblivious. Whether Sherlock Holmes, the Sherlock Holmes, can be so blinkered that he can't see what John's practically screaming out for the world to see.
When Sherlock calls for him from the street, hailing the next taxi in the next breath, John thinks that maybe he is. Then when Sherlock hands him back his phone, his fingertips lingering for one second longer than necessary, John thinks he really isn't. But when he catches Sherlock studying him in the cabbie's rear-view mirror, he really doesn't know what to think.