Title: One Day Like This
Author: fengirl88
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Wordcount: ~900
Disclaimer: They're still not mine.
Summary: It’s the first warm day of the year and John Watson is wearing a short-sleeved red shirt. This has never happened before.

A/N: Written for the square "body: elbow" on my kissbingo card. The card is here.  Thanks to blooms84 for the beta.

This one's for warriorbot, a day early, or possibly more...

ETA: Picture of MF in a short-sleeved shirt misremembered by me as red (which my fic!brain obviously thought would be an improvement) is here.


One Day Like This


It’s the first warm day of the year and John Watson is wearing a short-sleeved red shirt. This has never happened before.

Sherlock mutters to himself that it’s not fair. He’s been doing really well at training himself not to stare at his flatmate; he knows that staring makes people feel uncomfortable and he doesn’t want to make John feel uncomfortable because then John might decide he wants to move out and share a flat with someone who doesn’t stare at him all the time. But he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to cope with this.

He gazes at the hairs on John’s arms and swallows hard. Why should the sight of another man’s arms make his mouth water, make him want to run his tongue over all the fine hairs, following the line of the muscles, tracing the fading tan marks at the wrists? The red shirt is eye-catching, certainly, and it’s unusual for John to wear something so colourful, even if it is a soft red. But it’s John’s body, not his shirt, that Sherlock can’t take his eyes off.

John’s arms are difficult to ignore, given that he’s currently slumped at the kitchen table with his head resting on them. Another late night last night, but they’d finally cracked that case and even Lestrade had had to admit that Sherlock had been brilliant. Though it’s usually John who says so out loud. Sherlock should have got used to John saying that by now, but every time still feels like the first.

John’s head is leaning on his folded arms, and he might have fallen asleep or might just be resting his eyes, as he teases Sherlock sometimes about doing when Sherlock’s dropping off.

Sherlock moves closer to John, cautiously, not wanting to do anything to break the spell. John’s breathing is deep, as if he really is asleep, and his head looks as if it’s heavy on his arms. Sherlock sits down gingerly on the other kitchen chair, at right angles to John’s. He leans in closer, wanting to feel the heat coming from John, to smell the beautiful clean comfortable familiar smell of him, to do what he’s been longing to do for weeks, months, put his lips to John’s skin for once and–

John jerks awake, and his outflung arm catches Sherlock right in the face.

Sherlock yelps, can’t help himself, and John says in confusion “Sherlock–what the hell? Sorry–I didn’t–how did that happen?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer but he can feel himself going the colour of John’s shirt.

“Sounded painful,” John says. “Let me see.”

He gets up, puts a hand on Sherlock’s chin–oh god–and tilts Sherlock’s head back to inspect the damage.

“I’ll get the arnica,” John says. “Hasn’t broken the skin, but you’re going to have a bruise there. Sorry–I thought I’d stopped lashing out like that but obviously not. Bugger.”

He disappears into the bathroom and comes back with the tube of arnica.

“I can do that,” Sherlock says nervously. He can still feel the sensation of John's fingers on his face, and he’s not sure he can cope if John touches him again. He wants it too much.

John ignores Sherlock's outstretched hand and mutters something embarrassed about his own stupid clumsiness, “biffing you in the face like that.”

“My fault,” Sherlock says, wondering where his breath has gone. “Shouldn’t have disturbed you.”

“Oh well,” John says, smoothing arnica gently over Sherlock’s cheekbone, “you’re quite a disturbing character, as we know.”

He doesn’t mean it unkindly, and from anyone else it might almost be flirtatious, but Sherlock winces just the same.

“Sorry,” John says again. “Must have caught you quite a crack.”

He’s standing between Sherlock’s legs, and his arm is so close to Sherlock’s mouth that there’s nothing to stop Sherlock from pressing his lips against John’s skin. Nothing at all.

“Sherlock!” Protest, surprise, something on the edge of shocked laughter.

Can’t pretend it’s not happening. Can’t stop either.

Sherlock clutches John’s arm and presses a kiss into the crook of John’s elbow, the skin unexpectedly soft beneath his lips. He waits for John to say Get off or push him away, but John doesn't.

“Sherlock,” John says, and there’s a note of shaky arousal in his voice that makes Sherlock run his tongue along that crease and kiss it again, more insistently this time.

John drops the arnica and grips Sherlock’s shoulder, staggering a bit. Sherlock can feel John’s breath stirring his hair, and the heat of John’s body almost leaning against his. It’s so astonishingly good that it couldn’t possibly get any better, and then it does.

Sherlock finds he has to let go of John's elbow as John slides both arms around him and moves over and down so he’s straddling Sherlock’s thighs. The lovely sudden weight of John in his lap makes Sherlock groan with pleasure. John's solid warmth against him is the definition of everything Sherlock's ever wanted.

He tugs at the red shirt and pulls John closer, wanting to obliterate every last bit of the distance between them that’s tormented him for so long. He kisses John and John kisses him back and they press against each other till they’re both gasping, shaken and lost.

There'll never be another day like this, Sherlock thinks. But you only need one. Because now everything changes, everything begins.