I tap Inspector Lestrade’s name with my thumb and press send, a flicker of a smile playing up at my lips. Another case solved, and quite easily as well. Only an idiot would leave such detrimental evidence at the scene of the crime. The culprit obviously thought that only the Yard would be working on the murder investigation. Lestrade and Anderson and all of those other fools found themselves completely outmatched, as he knew they would, although they would never admit it. It was only when they called me to the scene that the investigation made any headway.
I place the phone gently down on the table and look up. My heads rings a little, the overly frequent use of my phone and laptop finally taking its toll. I slide my gaze over to John. His eyes lock on my own and he immediately looks down at the medical book that rests almost uncomfortably in his lap. He’s been doing this an awful lot lately, staring at me when he thinks I’m not looking. I hate not being able to understand what he’s doing. It’s almost as if he’s purposely trying to frustrate me. I’m about to ask him what the hell all these looks mean, when suddenly I notice a bit of redness creeping up his cheeks.
My eyes widen and I turn away, rubbing furiously at my hair with both hands. My mind is racing, trying to come up with a suitable explanation for all of this. My heart beats wildly, and what startles me most of all is the heat that I feel spreading across my face. But why? Why is my own face beginning to redden? I’m not angry, and I’m certainly not upset. I’m not embarrassed, I don’t think, which means that I can only be---
I look over at John. His chin is in his hand as he pores over his book. His greying hair is combed neatly, with only a few wisps out of place. His face isn’t in the least bit manly, but does it really need to be? In the words of a far less intellectual man, you might say that he looks rather... cute. His lips are perfectly shaped, and I wonder for a moment how many young women have had their own mouth pressed against his. And I feel a wave of jealousy. Not a pinch of jealousy, or even a stab. A wave. A huge wave.
I, Sherlock Holmes, am jealous.
I growl low in my throat, fury rising. John glances up at me, and our gazes meet again. My anger immediately disappears, and my stomach flutters anxiously. His eyes are absolutely beautiful. A grey that never seems to be completely grey mixed with a blue that never seems to be completely blue. And so soft. A gaze that could melt a man’s frozen heart before he can even say a word. It nearly destroys me to think that I have never noticed him like this before, that dozens of women have picked up on what I, the great Sherlock Holmes, could not.
I rise from my chair and his eyes follow me, growing wider and wider as he watches me make my way towards him. I kneel beside his chair and let a hand rest on his knee. “Sherlock?” He whispers, excited but also a bit anxious. “Shhh,” I murmur, my mouth close to his ear. His gaze flickers up to my face and he smiles, just as my lips press down on his neck.
I kiss him repeatedly, my mind thousands of miles away as my body takes control. His small hands run up and over my chest and I let out a wisp of air. He clutches tightly at my collar and stands up, the book falling from his lap. “If we’re going to do this,” he breathes, our mouths nearly touching, “we’re going to do it right.” He presses gently on my stomach and I move backwards, tripping and falling unceremoniously onto my sofa. He kneels over me and kisses me lightly on my brow. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting,” he murmurs through my curls. “Then show me,” I whisper, and I nearly gasp, surprised at what I just said. But John merely smiles deviously. “As you wish, your highness.” And he presses his mouth against mine.
We remain on my sofa for a long time, cuddling and kissing and tickling one another. I feel childish digging my fingers into his side, but the squeals that burst from John’s mouth are enough to make me realize that it’s worth it. I glance up at the clock and realize that it’s been nearly four hours since we first began. John’s eyes are only half-open, but his gaze is still directly on me. My head rests on his bare chest, and his strong arms surround my own naked torso. His red underclothes would have once bothered me, but now, as my finger traces the white lining, it seems almost rather adorable. My legs are intwined with his, and although the room is cold, his body fills me with a warmth that I know not how to express.
Never in my life have I felt so safe.