Title: Working Up to It
Warnings: Um… None, really? Haha
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, mentions of Anderson and Sally.
Notes: A little one shot I wrote for a prompt on a charity Meme. :) Thanks to Liz for the beta
Disclaimer: Sherlock, John, all of their friends and the many places the visit do not belong to me. If they did, I wouldn't have to write fanfiction, now would I?Summary: John doesn't care how long it takes, he will get some public displays of affection.
John isn't sure that this is the right time, but he's been building up to it for weeks.
Yes, John is in a relationship with the world's only consulting detective and yes—it's pretty good. Sherlock smiles a lot more than he had before and the sex is phenomenal, and once and a while John even gets a quick peck of affection when he does something Sherlock considers smart at a crime scene (though John secretly believes that it's just to piss off Anderson and Sally). It's a rare thing, and that makes it all the better.
But Sherlock isn't one for public displays of affection. When around other people they act like nothing has changed. Hell, even in private it's hard to get his flatmate to sit down long enough to eat a piece of toast, let alone curl up with him to watch a film or something domestic. Which despite himself, John wants. Craves.
So he works up to it. First it's subtle; unnecessary brushes and physical contact. And even though they only last a second or two longer than, normal Sherlock shoots him looks of interest, occasionally a look of annoyance.
But after a week of them Sherlock seems to either acclimatize or decide to ignore them. So John starts changing things up a little more.
First, he starts sitting next to him in the cab instead of leaving the middle seat between them.
The first time he tries it Sherlock stares with wide blue eyes, scanning John in that penetrating way. "What are you doing?"
"Going to a crime scene, aren't I?" John says, trying to sound as innocent as possible. Sherlock remains tense the entire ride to the art gallery and bolts out as soon as the cab pulls over, leaving John to pay the fare with a sigh.
But he doesn't relent, and keeps taking the middle seat in the cab.
At one point, as John sits and stares out the windshield while trying to decide how he's going to write up the latest solved case, he notices a change. Sherlock is no longer pressing himself into the furthest reaches of the cab as if he can leak through the door. He's… relaxed. Their knees are touching and they bounce against one another when the car goes over a bump.
John can't help the wide smile that creeps over his face, and when Sherlock asks what he's so happy about he just shrugs and tells him it's the thrill of the chase.
He gives Sherlock a good two weeks of quiet, comfortable cab rides before sliding into his end game.
He's nervous all day leading up to it, shifting his feet when Sherlock is twirling around the body like a macabre ballerina. Sherlock looks suspicious but doesn't comment, just insults Anderson's genetic material and tells Lestrade to arrest the gardener.
They get in the cab, John in the middle seat and Sherlock behind the driver, and start a normal, comfortable, silent ride home. Except John can't help bouncing his knee. Bloody nerves, they've always made him fidget.
Sherlock keeps looking at it and pulling that bloody face, the one he does when normal people do normal things that he finds beneath him. He opens his mouth to say something and John takes the opportunity.
He slides his hand into Sherlock's and twines their fingers together, not looking directly at the detective but noticing from the corner of his eye that his dark-haired flat mate has frozen in place. Sherlock's hand is cold and smooth, with little random bumps from where he's burnt himself working on some experiment or other weird thing Sherlock's played with that he probably shouldn't. John slowly trails his thumb over the back of Sherlock's hand.
Sherlock doesn't move an inch.
John wonders if it was too soon, if this was a mistake, and he's about to pull his hand away when Sherlock's fingers tighten around his. John hazards a glance in his flatmate's direction.
Sherlock is staring out the window, avoiding his gaze, and there's a slight red tinge high in his cheeks. John grins.
They spend the rest of the ride home hand-in-hand, and when Sherlock doesn't let go and instead pulls John out to the sidewalk he feels a pleasant, warm sensation in his chest.
Maybe there's hope for PDA's after all.