Chapter Text
John came home to find a box in the middle of the living room. When he looked closely, he noticed that it was actually multiple boxes, taped together on their short sides until they made sort of a tunnel. Immediately, John thought of the cardboard castles Harry and him would build as children. How they would spend hours playing knights or cavemen, until their mother called them for supper. John found himself smiling at the memories. Some of his fondest ones.
Sherlock, who was obviously responsible for this new addition to 221B, had pushed their chairs aside and was now sitting in front of the box, hands folded and fingers resting against his chin.
“What is all that?” John asked, as he made his way to the kitchen, making sure not to touch any part of the experiment. He came to stand behind his armchair, fingers wrapped around its back rest. For a moment, he imagined feeling Sherlock’s shoulders instead, how they would relax as he massaged the tension out of them. Sherlock would sigh and lean into the touch. John shook his head, silently chiding himself for giving in to such fantasies in front of Sherlock. He never did that, had made it a rule not to do so, not with those observant eyes around.
Sherlock did not look up at him. “Multiple boxes taped together.”
And John should have been annoyed at that blunt answer, but maybe he had gotten answers like this so many times before, or he was too besotted with the man to care – or a mixture of both - but John just chuckled.
“Alright, better question, then. Why is all that in our living room?”
Sherlock made a sound in his throat that sounded almost like pride, and John translated it as ‘See, you are learning, becoming less of an idiot every day’. “Case.”
“Care to share?” John turned to the kitchen to find some food. This could take a while. If Sherlock decided to talk to him today, and after a full day at the clinic, he needed something in his stomach. John found some leftovers from when they had ordered Thai yesterday. Too lazy to heat them up, John took the plate from the fridge and started eating the cold rice.
Sherlock remained quiet all the while, eyes closed, but started speaking the moment John turned back to him.
“Murder. Elderly lady was stabbed in her mansion. She was robbed. Expensive jewellery was stolen. I found disturbances in the dust and found a trap door. They got in during the night and waited in the floor space, waiting until their victim would leave in the morning. Three hours, maybe more, in a space that was 210 centimetres or 82.3 inches in length, 65 centimetres or 25.6 inches deep and 70 centimetres or 27.55 inches high. Lestrade did not allow me to crawl in there because blood had trickled down between the floorboards…” That last part made him sound like a small child that has just been told to keep away from the biscuit jar. John was so very fond of him it almost hurt.
“So, you want to lay in that box to maybe figure out what they saw? Heard?” John felt the excitement bubble up in his stomach. He loved working on cases, and the last one had been far too long ago.
“Wrong.” Sherlock jumped to his feet unexpectedly and finally turned to John. He was in front of him in an instant and pulled the plate from his fingers. “We are finding out how they both fit in there.”
John raised an eyebrow. “Are we now?”
“Yes. Now. Hurry John.” Sherlock returned to the living room and was kneeling in front of the cardboard tunnel in an instant.
“Oh, the joys of being your friend,” John found himself not minding at all. He stole another fork full of chicken masala and rice, before he followed the great detective, who had already crawled half-way into the box, presenting John with a view of his plump arse, trousers straining around it.
John wished he could say he had looked away, been a good friend who would never stare and lick his lips as he watched his friend’s behind, but he did not have such restraint. Later, he would feel guilty about it, that’s what he always did. Those feelings, those desires for his flatmate were inappropriate, uncalled for. Pushing them away, falling out of love, was impossible. John had tried. He had distracted himself with girlfriends, wonderful women who deserved more than an ex-soldier and ex-surgeon who was infatuated with his best friend. For two of them, he had felt love, believed for a few months, that it might work, but nothing was ever as deep, so ever-lasting as what he felt for Sherlock. All he had left was to accept it and move on in a way that did not ruin their friendship. He knew he could do that – Sherlock was too important for him not to.
John watched Sherlock fully disappear inside the box and with a sigh, he knelt and slowly followed him. The tunnel was open on the bottom, and John felt the carpet against his shin and knees through his jeans. That’s when he realised he would be stuck inside this tunnel with Sherlock. In very limited space. With bodily contact.
Avoiding that had been part of the plan to get over his attraction to Sherlock, and now John knew he could not get out of this experiment anymore. Excitement ran down his spine and boiled up in his belly, mixing with the fear that Sherlock would see, would observe, and be disgusted with the lack of control John had over his transport, over his heart.
No way back, John told himself and crawled in further. It got darker, the further he got, until his body blocked out most of the light coming from outside the box. His forehead made contact with Sherlock’s body – his left buttock to be precise.
In shock, John sat up, lifting the entire box from the floor.
“No, John. That would not have worked in the floor space. It is not as flexible as this. You would have hurt your head, badly,” Sherlock protested. “Do stay within the parameters of the experiment.”
John obeyed, sitting back down but crawling back. “How long did they stay in there?”
“At least three hours.”
“Well, I’m not the scientist here, but I’m sure the guy did not spend three hours with his face attached to his mate’s behind.” John made it back out. He rubbed his hands over his face. What had he gotten himself into, again?
An ‘oh’ made its way out of the box, followed by first legs, then an entire consulting detective. “I had supposed they would not mind if it meant achieving their goal, but then, people are idiots like that.” He brushed a few pieces of fluff from his trousers.
“If I, as suspect A, were in the floor space legs first, we would have to look at each other in the dark for three hours, which might be just as uncomfortable for someone not as secure in their heterosexuality as they might have thought.”
John flinched at that. He felt called-out. What if Sherlock knew? What if this was a test on how much control the soldier had over his body? Sherlock would do something like this just out of curiosity, not with a cruel intent.
“Also, kneeling would be uncomfortable for such a long time. Possible, but not the cleverest thing to do.”
“How else could they have done it, then?” John tried to focus on the case. That was what mattered now. A woman had been killed, and she deserved to at least get justice.
“Laying down.” Sherlock’s answer came as if shot out of a pistol, and he was back in the box tunnel a moment later, sprawled out on his back. All John could see were his naked feet and the part of his leg that was not covered by his pyjama bottoms, pale and barely covered in body hair.
For a moment, John considered crawling in feet first, so they could lie in there. head to toe, but he was not as good a man as people thought him to be. He had that one chance to press his chest against Sherlock’s and he would bloody well use it.
Moving awkwardly in the tight space, not wanting to hurt Sherlock by putting too much weight on him, John half crawled, half slithered into the tunnel. Sherlock’s scent was everywhere and John closed his eyes for a moment to take it in. This was so familiar to him, but never had he gotten to experience it in such intensity. It was lovely. Addictive.
Sherlock did not protest and moved to adjust for John’s intrusion into the tight space, until finally, John was laying on top of him. He had imagined this to be cosy, a moment he would be able to live on for a while. Instead, he found himself awkwardly holding his body up, not knowing how to position his head. John felt uncomfortable looking down at Sherlock, even if they could only see shapes in the faint light. Finally, he settled for resting his cheek against Sherlock’s chest, a position that felt intimate, too close to cuddling.
Beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, Sherlock’s heart was beating strong and fast, and John wondered if it was pumping as many emotions through his body as he himself felt boiling in his own veins. Hearing its steady thump thump calmed John, Sherlock’s chest rising and falling with his shallow breaths. His arm twitched and John hoped for a moment that Sherlock would wrap his arm around him, pull him close, tuck him against his chest.
Instead, the detective cleared his throat. “This is not unbearable, but would soon get uncomfortable for suspect A,” he says, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
John jumped into action, feeling immediately guilty for taking advantage of this situation. He rolled off him, which was not easy in the tight space. John hits his head and elbow against the box, making it shake, glad that they were just surrounded by cardboard, not firm walls. They readjusted their positions until they were both laying on their sides, John’s arms tucked to his chest awkwardly.
That was worse, somehow, as now, John had a full view of Sherlock’s neck. He wanted to brush his lips against the pale skin, taste it. John closed his eyes, trying to think of anything else. If he were planning on robbing someone, hiding under their floor, what would he think about, how would he feel? Why was he even hiding? Could he not steal the jewellery while the victim was asleep? Was that planned? Or were they almost caught and acted quickly? How did they know about the crawl space? How did Sherlock even know there were two? Did they know the victim? Did...
His thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock’s hand brushing against his side. John found himself holding his breath at the accidental touch, too aware still of how close they were.
The hand stayed, its warmth burning through the fabric of John’s shirt, making him shiver. Sherlock brushed his thumb along his ribs, and John did not dare to breathe out, in case it would ruin this moment, scare Sherlock away from this tender touch.
And this should have been ridiculous, two grown men trapped in a cardboard box in the middle of their living room, but they were too occupied now to notice.
He tilted his head to look up at his best friend, unable to see much more than the glinting in his eyes as he looked back, hand squeezing John’s side, leaving a trail of goosebumps as his fingers brushed up against John’s arm, up to his shoulder.
John finally let the air escape from his lungs to take a deep breath. He wanted so much, hoped so much that this was not some weird part of this experiment, but a real tenderness Sherlock felt towards him.
Had he not seen, all this time? Seen, but not observed?
In this moment, in their cardboard box, the tension between them was undeniable, the air electrified. So many times before, he had put it down to wishful thinking. There was no denying it, now. They were pressed so closely together, sharing the same air, eyes finding the other’s face in the dark, hoping they would find answers there without having to use words. Words, which were so prone to misunderstandings, could be used to hide away feelings between little white lies, protecting, shielding.
Their bodies did not. Sherlock’s fingers trailed along his neck, just a brush of fingertips. John felt his cool hand against his cheek for a moment. As if on instinct, he turned his face a bit to rest it against his palm.
“We should try back to chest and back against back, next,” Sherlock’s voice was soft, laced with doubt, as he gave them a final out.
“No, we shouldn’t” John responded, not wanting to move for the life of him. For a moment, he thought he might have scared Sherlock off, but then the detective moved towards him, and a second later they were kissing.
Sherlock’s lips were hot and soft and delicious. All it took was a short brush of Sherlock’s mouth against his own and John was addicted. He needed more, suddenly couldn’t get close enough to Sherlock as they kissed, that initial tenderness soon giving in to a greed that had built up for years and was now breaking free.
John cupped Sherlock’s face to bring his mouth closer, teeth clicking as they scrambled to kiss more, to give way to that feeling of ‘Finally’. Where John’s mind had raced in the beginning, not catching a clear thought as he tried to comprehend what was happening, why it was happening, what it could mean for them, their friendship. Now it was blissfully blank, allowing him to just kiss and kiss and kiss, feel the man he loved close, hear his breath, the sound of his soft moans.
They came up for air, and Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s, staying close. John took a few breaths, trying to block out the calls of his brain that yes, finally, he was making out with Sherlock and that he should please continue doing so, and those of his heart which ached to know if this was real. There still was that doubt, that somehow Sherlock could regret, that this was just the heat of the moment and would lead nowhere. He was not sure he could survive that.
“I am quite sure the suspects did not do this in the crawl space,” Sherlock whispered into the space between them, and that broke the tension. John broke into giggles, letting go of all the overwhelming feelings. Sherlock joined him, his grumbling laughter vibrating through John’s body. It stopped, but the thumb brushing against John’s cheek did not.
“John, I’m sorry, but we really have to solve this murder case now. Maybe after, we could continue,” he took a breath, “this in a more comfortable place.”
There was an initial feeling of regret. John did not want to leave this box, leave this kiss, ever again. He wanted his body against Sherlock’s, his mouth on Sherlock’s, in the semi-dark. He got over it quickly. Work, he realised, would still be the most important part of the detective’s life, even if their relationship was shifting into something new. And John was weirdly okay with that. He loved the work too. Every part of it.
“Let’s go,” He whispered back, brushing another kiss against Sherlock’s lips.