“You were distracted by something, though?” Sherlock asked, good humouredly - lighting his pipe. The glow in the room was not unpleasant. It highlighted Sherlock’s pale cheeks and sharp cheekbones … John however … was mesmerized by his hands … following them, tracing their outline … wondering … as Sherlock threw the stub into the fireplace. His right hand in stark relief to the orange blaze behind it.
John adjusted his collar. Realizing also, that it somehow had become excessively warm in here?
“Uncomfortable? Shall I open the window?” Sherlock began, hands moving gracefully to point at the window. John halted him, mid-stride.
“No, thank you,” he replied, “it’s nothing. Will pass. Felt a bit flushed, is all.”
“You look it,” Sherlock observed, keenly.
John tore his eyes away, refocusing on the paper before him … but … after a few moments, he was lost in thought again. Following those hands.
He was knocked from his reverie by Sherlock clearing his throat and raising his eyebrows in question. He hurried to cover up the manuscript, as he realized - too late! - Sherlock was coming over to read what little he had written …
Typically it was he wandering into his mind palace and ignoring John … not the other way ‘round!!
“What have we here?” Sherlock asked, lifting the light pages from off of John’s lap, and John dropping the rest to stand and join him. Gawping. Gasping. Trying to take the pages back! But Sherlock twirled, enjoying the game. Reading studiously, despite all of John’s protests!
“Seem to be a bit fixated on my ..*ehem* … ‘long, thin hands’ here, Watson?” Sherlock eyed him again with not a little kindness as he peeled away the layers between John’s conscious act and unconscious thoughts …
“Well, they are - you - are … quite-,”John stared at his feet, trying to collect his thoughts and reason. Shutting his mouth, before he should expose himself worse! And possibly be kicked out!
Just what he was attempting to write down before he had become fixated by the elegant detective’s fingers … ? He couldn’t even recall it now. Everything before him, was Sherlock.
He was turning red again. The sound in the room, zooming down to his own breathing! What had he been thinking of?!! Allowing himself to daydream like this?!! He couldn’t say it out LOUD!
He could feel the tips of his ears. His nose. Reddening again … The burning in his cheeks … a private tell that Sherlock knew intrinsically. He had mentioned it many a time, when John was flirting with a cute barmaid or bank teller. There was nothing he could truly hide from his best and closest friend? Even if he wished it to be so?
To his surprise, Sherlock stepped closer …
Bending forward to whisper in his ear …
“And what exactly were you imagining my long, thin hands capable of?”
The warmth began pooling in his belly, mind racing towards places he was not allowed to go! Mary had just left him, or rather - kicked him out! After reading his last issue in ‘The Strand’ and coming to her own conclusions on the matter!!
He shut his eyes tight and tried to squeeze it out. Shut it out. Slam the door. Just as he had with Mary - but Sherlock …
Sherlock …
And those delicate, sensual fingers … came closer.
His breath held … he felt Sherlock’s hand press gently against his lips … shushing him. Pads held there. Kissable. Soft. The hands of a gentleman.
He whispered again in John’s ear,
This time, the warm puff of air trailing down into his collar and teasing his neck with endless possibility … as he begged, “please, tell me?”
