Cheekbones and Other Assets
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from the BBC's Sherlock.
AN: Huh. Well, I have little/no control over the eccentricities of my Muse. Hence this unexpected creation. My first Sherlock fic, so it's a bit experimental (plus the characterisation is difficult), let me know what you think :)
"Oh good. John. You're home."
The doctor merely lifted his eyebrows in the detective's general vicinity in reciprocated greeting, with a gruff, "Sherlock."
"Would you bring me the German dictionary?" Sherlock requested, pleasantly, eyes flicking in scrutiny over the tense form of his partner.
John picked it up, and carelessly tossed the hardback volume towards the sofa, shedding his coat carelessly across the coffee table on his way over to the kitchen.
Sherlock snapped shut the case file on his lap and swung his legs down from the coffee table, the Duchess' lost brooch immediately forgotten in preference of the opportunity to solve his ever favourite mystery; the mystery that was John Watson.
He sauntered casually into the kitchen, just as John sloshed milk over the side of his mug and let out a few choice swear words.
"I don't want any tea, thank you," Sherlock said pointedly, glancing briefly at the single mug in his boyfriend's hand (which, incidently, had not two hours ago housed a rather beautiful set of dentures, but he chose brilliantly not to mention that particular fact).
"Not now Sherlock," John said tiredly, "It's been a long day."
Sherlock scoffed. "You've only been at work for 4 hours," he commented, "It's your half day."
"It's a figure of speech," John replied, crossly.
The detective watched him sink tiredly into the armchair.
"You haven't had any difficult patients today," he said, "and you haven't talked to your sister… and yet something is bothering you… not empathy for world news, you barely had a chance to read the front page this morning, you woke up late- ah – last night then, Lestrade's birthday party…"
He paused, eyes narrowed as he thought quickly through the events of the evening prior.
"It's not the fact that I failed to be spontaneously romantic like that awful couple at the bar, with the lilies, which, by the way, she was allergic too, he should have known better, he was probably thinking of someone else when he bought them, interestingly a someone with the same colour hair as his…"
"Sherlock," John said, and the exasperation in his voice was evident even if he hadn't been talking to the world's only consulting detective. "I just want to drink my tea and read the paper."
"Don't be ridiculous, I want to help." Sherlock said shortly. "This is how I help, John, just… just stand up."
This suggestion was met with an angry glare.
"Don't tell me what to do like that," he mumbled, "Please… just…"
Sherlock was over to him in a few steps, perching suddenly on the edge of the coffee table. "Lestrade's cousin," he said, imperiously, "I'm right, aren't I?"
"I don't need you to deduce me," John snapped back, "I need you to leave me alone so that I can drink my tea and read the paper."
"What was it she said?"
"No, that wasn't it," the detective continued, seemingly oblivious to John's discomfort. "Though it was about me, wasn't it? And something, or someone, reminded you of that today."
John's eyes flicked to his, but he wasn't quick enough to avoid Sherlock's piercing gaze.
"John?" he said, gently, "I'm not demanding that you tell me, I just think it would help you if you did… if you would prefer it, I can go and finish the experiment I started this morning in the bathroom."
He felt a twinge of worry at the fact that he wasn't immediately called up on the fact that he shouldn't be doing experiments in the bathroom, how it was unhygienic and how he already had a designated area in the corner of the kitchen away from any food.
John huffed. "She said, 'he's a bit of a dish, isn't he, you must be right proud of him'- happy now?"
Sherlock stiffened. "Should I be?" he asked, "With that level of grammatical incorrectness?"
John was silent, sipping his tea, and nudging his knees against Sherlock's, no doubt imagining a relationship different from theirs in which an unquestioning hug would have long ago been equally as helpful.
"And what did the new receptionist say this morning?"
"How did you..?"
"Lucky guess," Sherlock dismissed, with a wave of his hand. "Stop changing the subject."
John frowned, but took a deep breath, deciding that he never was going to get to read the paper if he didn't appease Sherlock with this.
"She was just asking if I enjoyed the party, or rather, if I enjoyed showing you off at the party."
Sherlock considered this.
"Both incidences you took to mean had a certain subtext about our relative appeal to the, somewhat questionable, discussed sources, and evidently seem to have extrapolated…"
He jumped up.
"Close your eyes."
"Close your eyes," he repeated, impatiently, "I'm helping."
John sighed, but did so, pushing his tea onto the coffee table where Sherlock had been sitting.
"Describe your face."
"What?" Eyes flew open again, frustrated, seeking some sort of explanation from cool blue-grey ones.
He found none though, mainly because Sherlock had in fact moved to stand behind him, and instead had long graceful fingers ghost across his cheeks, gently smooth down both eyelids, and a chaste brush of lips to his temple.
"Tired," he began, adding, "Probably, lines everywhere…" A short laugh. "Greying as well-"
"Your face or your hair?" Sherlock interrupted, and was answered with a snort.
"I dunno- my hair… but both I s'pose."
"Okay, what about the rest of you?"
His lover's face scrunched up. "Really Sherlock? Do I have to?"
"Well, no, but I would like you to."
John sighed again.
"Short." He said, "Erm… not too bad shape, but, yeah… dull, nothing special… can we stop this now?"
"You are the least dull person I know," Sherlock retorted, "And I've read better descriptions of irrelevant walls at crime scenes on your blog."
"Well how would you describe me then?" John huffed, annoyed, a comeback rather than a fish for compliments.
Sherlock smiled, pulling John to his feet by grabbing at his wrists.
His eyes flashed open again.
The detective stilled, expectant.
"That's not how this works, you know… I can't just… you can't…" He exhaled sharply as Sherlock squeezed his hands and released them.
"Can't what?" Sherlock questioned impertinently, with the air of one who hardly knows the meaning of the word.
"You can't stand there- and compliment me, when you're… with your cheekbones…"
Sherlock's mouth twisted in a wry grin.
"My cheekbones again," he said, allowing his deep baritone to drop further into the depths of molten dark chocolate and rise up again, dripping with the silken treat.
John's brow furrowed.
"I can't help it," he complained, half-heartedly, "They're just- there."
His partner chuckled warmly.
"They are no more there than your grabbable buttocks," he said, offhandedly, causing John to look up from his detailed study of the carpet abruptly.
"Grabbable buttocks?" He snorted, "huh."
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock deemed it necessary to further enhance his argument with a demonstration, crowding John with his usual disregard for personal space and/or warning for such invasion, and with similar rudeness, pulling them closer with his hands spread firmly over the seat of John's jeans.
"You're doing it again."
His voice was muffled and the taller man's lips quirked in amusement.
"Trying to distract me with your cheekbones and other assets," John grumbled.
"Is it working?"
The question was accompanied with soft nips to the side of his neck, as searching lips sought the sensitive skin there.
"Well John, I have quite simply already solved this case without even so much as having to collect any evidence."
The doctor wriggled slightly in his cocoon of consulting detective.
"Brilliant," John muttered, "course you have… I bet it was the gardener's 2nd cousin."
"If this is about the brooch, then you are mistaken," Sherlock explained airily, "One of my first leads was to the gardener, but unfortunately, after one look at the state of the overgrown jungle… ah- no- your sarcasm is rather indistinct when I happen to be focussing on other… benefits… of having you quite so close."
John was glad that his face was hidden as a blush crept onto his cheeks. Sherlock was annoyingly smug when he made him blush.
"People have rightly assumed that I don't share," Sherlock continued, "and despite the fact that I share many things with you, I most definitely won't share you… It's all quite simple really."
"Well- it's not like I want to share you either!"
Sherlock lay a lingering kiss below his lover's earlobe.
"You know I don't mind you showing them that," he said lowly, and a sharp thrill of heat twisted down John's spine.
"Like how?" He probed, a little huskily.
"Use your imagination, John," Sherlock replied, then added, quickly, "And by that I don't mean 'and the walls were a sort of brown colour'."
John failed to suppress a giggle.
"They were a sort of brown colour," he countered, "There was nothing more to say about them!"
"Hence its irrelevance," Sherlock breathed, drawing out the syllables as he passed hot breath against John's lips.
In retaliation, the doctor brought his hands up to frame the aforementioned hailed cheekbones, a firmness in his grip that sent a look of delight across Sherlock's face.
With similar assuredness, he pulled their open mouths together, meeting an equally hungry pair of lips for a kiss that started as a brief statement, and quickly escalated into a lengthy dissertation with additional appendices for the intricacies of the possessive use of tongue.
"Something like that?" John managed, breathless, and taking a step back, knowing it was improbable that it would make any difference.
The detective could only nod.
"I do believe I would like to complete the experiment I began in the bathroom this morning," he informed his grinning partner, "If you would care to accompany me."
"Right. Okay. Yes. Right."
"It really will be much more enjoyable with you."
Sherlock took his hand.
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