Keeping Up (Sherlock/John) (1/2)
John should know better than to openly challenge Sherlock Holmes.
Fandom: BBC’s Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: PG-13, changing to M for the second part.
Warning: Smut should be in the next part. This is the lead-up.
{My friend boiled-potato is staying over and she made me drag this out of the depths of my notebook. I’m already 300 words into the second and final part, which I’d like to finish tomorrow.
Fic under the cut, of course.}
——
Living in 221B requires, as John learns very early on in the game, a particular skill set.
The ability to think quickly. A steel stomach. Retorts and sharp replies. A stoic nature. Unshakable nerves. A quick wit. The ability to accept the unexpected and embrace it. Stubbornness.
Several of these things needed to be cultivated over time, and John was alright with that. Four months in and he was getting better by the day- he worked out a preliminary sleeping schedule, and he was no longer phased when he found human tongues in his cereal bowls. He was back in shape and on form.
He even liked it.
Not the tongues, of course, but the simple fact was that life seemed to be interesting whenever he let Sherlock tow him around London. He fancied that he could keep up, if not in mind, then in body.
At four and a half months of tenacy, he made the mistake of telling him so.
They had freshly returned from an abuse case on the outskirts of London, still floating on the adrenaline rush of out-running a pack of trained mastiffs, and for John, at least, seeing a happy ending for the first time in weeks.
He had already thrown his keys into the bowl on the table before Sherlock answered him.
“John, really, anyone would keep up with me when they have the hounds of hell lunging in for their Achilles tendons.”
John dropped his bag down onto the sofa with a long, almost satisfied exhale.
“I helped you kick in three doors. No, wait, I kicked in three doors, and you shouted at me while I was doing it.”
He shrugged his jacket off and draped it over the arm of his chair.
Sherlock, however, didn’t untie his scarf or pull off his own coat. He didn’t even collapse onto the sofa or fuss with the remaining evidence bags on their table.
Instead, he stood against the door of their flat, watching John as he fetched his laptop from the desk and cleared away the excess pillows from his seat. He didn’t register the lack of movement by the door until he had settled down.
“So you can keep up with me, then.”
John entered his password and pressed the enter key with a small flourish.
“Yeah.”
“In everything.”
John shifted the laptop further down to rest on his knees. He shrugged.
“Yeah, I’d say so. If not in mind, in body.”
The two of them watched his computer as it started up, and Sherlock moved to lean against the back of John’s armchair.
He murmured something quiet to himself and steepled his fingers over his mouth and nose. He exhaled, and John glanced up and over his shoulder.
“What?”
“Turn off your laptop.”
“I only just turned it on.”
“Your blog hasn’t had any recent hits. Your email only has two messages, and you’ve been avoiding a conversation with your sister for the past week. The news- there was a bombing in Syria, a double homicide in Gloucester and you don’t want to have to pretend to be interested in American politics until I move and do something else, John. Turn. Off. Your. Laptop.”
John paused and watched his cursor.
“Your laptop is right over there,” he said, and he could hear him scoffing over his shoulder.
“Now.”
He put his laptop on hibernate and balanced it on his knees. Sherlock reached over him and shut the lid. The fabric of his coat brushed against John’s shoulder. “What’s this about, then?” he tried, but Sherlock was already unknotting his scarf.
“Nobody has ever claimed to be able to keep up with me,” Sherlock told him, “so we’re testing your theory empirically. Upstairs in three minutes.”
He shelled off his coat and tossed it onto the sofa in one smooth, quick movement. He headed up to his bedroom and left John sitting stupidly in the same spot. And, of course, Sherlock was completely right. It took about two minutes for him to put his laptop under his chair, inhale, exhale, and pull himself to his feet.
When he got there, he hovered by the bedroom door and looked inside.
There were no test tubes or petri dishes. Sherlock had not had time to bring his microscope upstairs, nor would he want to move it in the first place. The newspapers that had taken up at least three fourths of his bed had been pushed onto the floor.
He wasn’t sure if he liked that, and he filed the observation away for later.
Sherlock was fumbling with the catch of the window, and he half turned to invite him in with a quick gesture. He wedged the window open with the Oxford English Dictionary before he met John at the door.
He grabbed him by the knitting of his jumper and pulled him inside- and their mouths clashed. It was a fumble of hands and fabrics, and it seemed like a decade had passed before John pulled back with his fists gripping Sherlock’s upper arms, as if that would keep him at bay while he tried to process the events that had just unfolded. Those thin lips pressed in for another kiss, and he moved further away.
“Sherlock- I swear to god—”
Sherlock let go, and John’s fingers went lax around his arms. He drew back and dropped onto the bed.
“It’s fine, John. You can’t keep up with me.”
He had to have predicted the way that John would press his fingers to his forehead, lick his lips for the briefest moment and kick the door shut behind him. He had to have expected the way that he perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed and reached for him.