docwithablog | storyline one.

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[ He drops the cat hair and springs to his feet. ]

Grief? [ Shaking his head, he looks around the room one last time, gaze lingering by the jewelry box briefly. Hmm. ] No, no. Anger. [ He's about to walk past John when he notices the blush in his cheeks and for a long moment, he simply stands completely still, staring at the other man. Working it out. Not the panty drawer, presumably, which leaves... Sherlock, on his knees? Oh. Oh, that's... He frowns. ] You just thought about me, sucking you off.

[ And now, when he's voiced the thought, his own stray immediately to the last time they had sex, to the general experience of having sex with John Watson and it brings up all sorts of interesting, mental images and sensory memories, quickly drowning out the sad mystery of Amber Verity's dead tabby. Slowly, surely, a blush spreads on his cheeks as well. He looks away and sucks his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, everything suddenly... on pause. ]

[ John is, honest to God, about to comment on Sherlock's observation of it being a matter of anger rather than grief, because presumably -- if you ask Kathy, Amber does have a lot to be angry about, but how that doesn't make her the most likely killer, he just doesn't -- You just thought about me, sucking you off, Sherlock says, making all John's thoughts screech to a halt. He stares at the man. They've been here before, their previous case ended up having quite a number of these awkward little moments where John was thinking about sex for various related and very unrelated reasons and Sherlock deduced it, because he's a twat who doesn't know when to keep his bloody mouth shut. In response, John's mouth opens, closes, opens again and he licks his lips, raising his chin, hands dropping to his sides.

Sherlock looks away and sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying it the way he does when he's uncomfortable or thinking or both and John just looks at him for a while, before saying, keeping his voice calm: ] Yes, I did. [ Pause. ] Did you get what you need from the cat hairs, then?

[ Ready to move on when you are, it means. ]

[ There's only a beat of silence, then John breaks the moment up, his calm voice settling in Sherlock's nervous system like water, a clean rush. He straightens slightly, looking at the other man for another short moment as his brain realigns itself. Sex, not now, not here. Case. Cat. Amber Verity. Yes. Moving past John quickly, their shoulders brushing in the process, he nods. ]

Nothing more to be gained from them, in any case. [ He opens the door and steps out, leaving it ajar behind him and pausing in the hallway. It's empty, still, with most dancers still in the dance studio and he takes the time to note the names on the adjacent doors (Olivia Ashton, Cecilia Lovechild, Alice Boulton. And further down, Ludvig Kranz and Earnest Evans). ] We'll talk to Russell first; then, we need to take our own look at Alice Boulton's dressing room.

[ He pushes his hands in his pockets. His face still feels a bit too hot, though the blush is receding gradually. At some point, hopefully his brain will get used to this new... development in their partnership because otherwise, he's going to be much, much too slow, going onwards. He thinks about John and the flirting ballerina, the other man's straying eyes. Didn't get that reaction, though, did she?

Ha. ]

storyline one.

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