Of course, once she's brought it up, he can't forget it. Over the next few days, Sherlock solves three cases in rapid succession -- the first without even leaving the apartment. John is useless throughout. Worse than useless.

"... as is obvious from the state of his glasses," observes Sherlock, gesturing at a photo Lestrade sent to his phone when Sherlock rated the case "only a 5."

"Mmm," John responds. Am I staring at his lips? Well, I am now. But was I before? Is it just like trying not to think of an elephant -- I'm only doing it because I'm trying not to? Sherlock's mouth has a very nice shape to it, he supposes. If one were into that sort of thing.

Do I stand too close? I am standing close. Did I do that, or did he? Does he notice? His lips are right at eye level... maybe that's why I stare. His fault for being so tall, really.

"... given the absence of crustaceans..." John nods absently.

I don't stare because I want to kiss him. That's absurd. He imagines leaning forward and pressing his lips against Sherlock's. His stomach tightens unexpectedly.

What was that? I don't want to -- I'm not -- I have to stop staring. Oh god, did I just lick my lips?

"...now, John?"

He jerks alert. "Hmn? What? Oh, yes, right."

"Good." Sherlock grabs John's coat off the door and shoves it onto John while John tries to figure out what he's just agreed to. As Sherlock pushes him out the door -- his hand feels oddly hot against the small of John's back -- John resists and turns back toward the apartment.

"Sherlock, where am I going?"

Sherlock looks at him sharply. "To tell Lestrade to arrest the brother, and to pick up the dirt sample from the other case. Are you all right?"

"What? Yes, of course." John feels slightly touched that Sherlock has asked -- it's the kind of personal question he generally doesn't bother with -- while also wishing desperately that Sherlock were not staring at him as a blush creeps upward from his collar. Has he been watching John watching him?

"You normally say 'fantastic,' or brilliant', or utter some other overenthusiastic compliment when I'm presenting my reasoning. But you didn't comment once this time." Ah, just Sherlock being self-centered again. John shakes his head. He needn't have worried. People and emotions really aren't Sherlock's areas.

(He wonders if he should be insulted that his sister thinks he makes a perfect pair with someone for whom that's the case.)

"Sorry, I'll try to be a more devoted fanboy, shall I?" John drips sarcasm, covering up for his momentary uncertainty and embarrassment.

Sherlock responds with an unexpected quirk of his lip. "And how exactly will you do that? Start dotting the i's on your blog with hearts?"

John giggles -- it's so unexpected that it completely breaks him out of his nervous distraction. Sherlock joins in with a rich laugh. "Probably not the best idea," John chuckles. "People might talk."

Eventually, John heads out the door again, a smile still lingering on his face. Sherlock has turned away, dressing gown swirling, fingers pressed together beneath his chin. He's contemplating the next case already, John knows.

John resolves to tell Harry she's being ridiculous and be done with the whole thing. After all, it isn't like John has ever thought about kissing Sherlock before she brought it up. And he doesn't want to kiss him now.

What about that little maneuver your stomach pulled when you were thinking about it? Imaginary Harry asks.

That was nothing. Anyone would feel unsettled imagining kissing their best mate.

Ah, "unsettled". Right. She sounds amused.

Shut up, Harry.

* * *

Stop staring at his lips. Look somewhere else. John looks out the window of the flat that they have just broken into, stares blankly at the street. He takes a small step backward from Sherlock for good measure. No need to stand so close.

Sherlock leans closer, more than making up the distance, and speaks directly into his ear. His voice lowers, rumbling against John's tympanic membrane. This is not less distracting. Concentrate, John. Concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate --

"--?"

John can hear that he's been asked a question, but has no idea what it was. "Right," he says, hoping that's appropriate.

Sherlock brightens. "You've spotted the killer, too? Excellent."

"Um. What? No."

Sherlock sighs in exasperation. He steps back slightly and starts to explain, and John tries to follow along.

* * *

Between flat-hunting, job-hunting, and AA, on the one hand, and cases on the other, Harry and John mostly miss each other for several days. But on Wednesday, Harry comes home to the apartment to find Sherlock and John standing close together, conferring over their latest puzzle. (Sherlock is conferring; John is still mostly trying not to stare.) She walks in as John says, "What shall we try next?" and without hesitating, she holds a fist up to her mouth and rudely mimes giving a blowjob from behind Sherlock's back. She grins at John, then sprawls on the sofa with a magazine, clearly watching them from the corner of her eye.

That's not fair. John hadn't even been thinking about Sherlock's mouth like that.

* * *

By week's end, John has almost managed to triumph over The Lip Situation, as he's come to think of it, despite Harry's unhelpful suggestions. He is once again managing to not keep up with Sherlock's reasoning at a proper pace.

Friday afternoon, Sherlock is in the kitchen, perched on a chair and staring at a strand of fabric through the microscope while John manages to ask actual relevant questions. Things are feeling nearly normal again, as long as John studiously avoids staring at Sherlock's face and stays several feet away from him.

"John, fetch me the victim's wallet."

"Where--"

"Inside jacket pocket, left breast."

John steps forward and reaches for Sherlock's chest, pausing and hovering uncertainly at the last moment.

"Hurry."

He reaches inside Sherlock's suit. He feels the heat radiating off of Sherlock, through his thin shirt, feels his heartbeat as his hand brushes his chest. John's stomach does a flip. He fumbles uncharacteristically with the pocket but eventually withdraws the wallet.

Anyone would feel odd about touching their flatmate's chest.

Yes, but most people wouldn't do it, Harry observes. Most people wouldn't follow his every order.

Sherlock holds out his hand, seemingly deliberately far away from where John is holding the wallet. John refuses to move the extra few inches. See? I don't do everything he asks.

Sherlock blinks at his empty hand, frowns, turns and locks eyes with John. "John," he growls. "Wallet. Now."

John can't break away from Sherlock's gray-green gaze. He steps forward and places the wallet in Sherlock's hand. In his head, he can suddenly vividly hear Sherlock growling a different command. John. On your knees. Now. He visualizes dropping to the floor, and Sherlock's long fingers twining through his hair, as he... Oh. John's stomach does an entire acrobatics routine and botches the dismount.

Sherlock breaks eye contact and turns back toward the kitchen counter, flipping open the wallet and examining the bills inside.

"Right, I'm going out," John says shakily.

"We need milk."

"Ah."

John nearly runs out of the flat, and keeps up a brisk pace once he is outside. Bloody hell, what was that?

I don't know, John, says a smug Harry inside his head. What was that?

John adjusts his trousers and realizes he is in so much trouble.