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Anomalies	By : Harpling Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3513 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Sherlock, the BBC, or any of the characters mentioned herein, nor am I making any money from writing this.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
- 9
Title: Anomalies
Author: Harpling
Characters, Pairing: Sherlock/John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Donovan, Anderson, Dimmock, Mrs. Hudson, OC
Rating: PG13 (eventually NC17)
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was a man accustomed to anomalies. Things out of place formed the bulk of his work, after all. But why was he so slow to notice them in his own behaviour?
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and I am making no money from them.
Warnings: Manly man love, simulated choking, almost dry-humping (?)
Beta’d by the extraordinary Lynn Maxwell and not yet Brit-picked.

Chapter 8

The idea for the new avenue of inquiry into John’s proclivities came to Sherlock as he was reading Yard’s notes on the case of a botched kidnapping. Forced physical contact. That would no doubt lead to very conclusive results within a short period of time. He looked up from his reading just as John’s footsteps sounded in the hall. Perfect. “John, come over here. I need your assistance.”
Warily, John hung up his jacket and came over to stand next to Sherlock’s perch. “You’re not going to start testing chemicals on me again, are you? Only, I’d rather keep my limbs intact, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Hmm? Oh, that. No. I need to test a theory I’ve had about the placement of bruises on a relatively small person’s throat when attacked by a much larger assailant.”
“So you’re going to choke me because I’m short? No, thanks. I’ll be leaving now.” As he was saying this, John took several steps back toward the door.
“Don’t be absurd. I’m not actually going to choke you. There will be no loss of air on your part. I simply need to see where the thumb would rest in relation to the little finger. Just hold still.” Sherlock reached out, but John stepped neatly out of his reach and edged toward the door, the kitchen, the staircase, anywhere that wasn’t within the range of Sherlock’s ridiculously long arms.
“You want me to hold still and let you wrap your fingers around my throat? How mad do you think I am? Absolutely not! No way!” John continued to back around the room, eventually maneouvering so the coffee table was between them. Sherlock simply stepped over the offending piece of furniture.
“You’re being ridiculous. I won’t even apply any pressure. All I want to do is determine whether Dmitri Karolinski could have been involved in a cold case strangulation from seven years ago. If I’m right, it will prove that he’s been in the country for much longer than we thought before. Are you really going to let your squeamishness stand in the way?” As expected, this last appeal made John pause just long enough so Sherlock could grab him and twist him to the desired position. With his back to Sherlock (and his face clearly visible in the reflection from the telly), John finally stilled long enough for his throat to be gently measured. Sherlock’s long fingers traced up the sides of John’s neck, feeling the flutter of the pulse just below the jaw. In the reflection, he could see John’s look of resignation and annoyance at this new invasion of personal space. This was wrong. There was far too much space between them for adequate data to be gathered. The placement of his hands would also create a pattern of bruising completely different from that found on the victim, but that was hardly the point.
“No, this wouldn’t work. See? I couldn’t crush your trachea at all from this position. And it’s entirely too easy for you to get away. Lift your arms.” Sherlock stepped in closer, pulling John flush against him, back to chest. The sudden contact made his stomach twist and lurch, almost pleasantly. From this new vantage point, he could also see at close range the slow spread of pink across the back of John’s neck to his ears.
The subject in question sounded less than pleased, however. After an initial, breathless gasp that gave Sherlock some hope that this experiment might prove more successful than the rest, John twisted out of his grasp and turned to glare up at him. “Crush my trachea? Forgive me if I’m not exactly reassured when you say things like that so easily. Why do you want me to lift my arms, then? What’s that going to prove?”
“I am merely going to attempt to reach your throat with my forearms crossed over your chest and my elbows under your arms. Your, er, the victim’s mobility would be drastically reduced, and the position of the assailant’s fingers would be completely different. You’re being tedious, John. I would have been done already if you didn’t insist on stopping me so often.” Slowly, John turned away again and lifted his arms just a bit. It was sufficient for Sherlock to slip his arms under John’s, at which point he could quite easily place both hands around his flatmate’s throat. In this position, with John held flush against him, his back pressed tightly against Sherlock’s chest, his scent filling Sherlock’s lungs, it was very easy even for his brilliant mind to forget the task at hand. At the sight of John’s face (tipped back, eyes half shut, mouth slightly open: signs of either arousal or asphyxiation) reflected in the dark glass, Sherlock felt the need to tilt his hips subtly backwards to avoid pressing his burgeoning erection into John’s perfectly placed backside.
Recalling himself to the reason for this manouevre, Sherlock risked a look down. Damn John’s bulky jumpers! All he could see was a lot of beige wool. The screen of the telly didn’t reflect low enough to show whether John’s pants were tighter than they had been. Though strangely reluctant to give up this position, Sherlock dropped his arms and stepped back. Immediately, he felt the chill of the London winter where John’s body had touched. Although he swallowed audibly and raised a hand gingerly to his neck, John turned to face Sherlock rather than immediately bolting. A solution flashed into Sherlock’s mind.
“Perhaps the victim was facing the assailant. That would account for the bruising also found on the shoulders. The hands would be positioned differently as well.” With no other warning, he spun John about, this time pressing their chests together and wrapping his long arms around John’s torso, pinning his arms to his sides. From this position, he could just reach both hands around John’s neck. John’s face was pressed gently into his shoulder, causing his head to twist slightly. “Oh, “breathed Sherlock. “Oh, this is marvelous. John, this is simply perfect!” At the sight of his fingers forming the pattern reflected so clearly by the bruises shown in the autopsy photos, Sherlock was so excited he nearly forgot the primary objective of this particular endeavour. He recalled himself just in time.
A slight shift in his weight brought the top of his thigh between John’s legs; a very minor twist of his spine allowed him to press the side of his hip very gently into the area so thoroughly concealed by John’s loose trousers. There it was: an unmistakable bulge. Unless he was carrying a bundle of test tubes in his pocket for some reason, the evidence clearly indicated that Dr. John Watson felt some measure of sexual attraction to his flatmate. Of course, there was also the possibility that John felt some higher degree of arousal at the implied threat of asphyxiation; Sherlock had come across several internet sites claiming that such things were possible. When Sherlock released him and stepped back, John remained very still (eyes wide and glazed: surprise and mental confusion) (chest heaving: drastically increased respiratory rate, adrenaline flooding his system) (biting his lip: subconscious focus on erogenous zone) for a moment.
With a snap, John seemed to recall himself. As always when he felt thoroughly discomfited, he fell back on his military training. Mouth snapped shut, shoulders back, spine ramrod straight, head high, eyes refusing to meet Sherlock’s, John turned about-face and strode briskly toward his bedroom. Sherlock heard the door close and then the creak as John sat down on his bed.
Well. That was certainly informative. Sherlock had to concentrate very hard on recording the precise positions of his fingers in comparison with the bruising in the photos before he could sit down without some degree of discomfort. He didn’t hear a sound from John’s bedroom.
- 7
- 8
- 9
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Anomalies