Work Text:
"Oh, for heaven's sake, John, go take your shirt off and lie down on the sofa."
John's head shot up at Sherlock's sudden outburst. "What?" he asked, baffled, the blog entry he'd been composing in his head immediately evaporating into thin air.
Sherlock, who had been lying lengthwise on the coffee table with his head tipped over the edge, came to stand over by John. "You heard me. I'm tired of watching you wince every time you move your shoulders. If you didn't insist on sleeping on Sarah's sofa every other day, you wouldn't have this problem."
Unconsciously, John rolled his shoulder back; the resulting ache must have shown in his face, as Sherlock gave him a very pointed look. Still. "You do realize," he said, "the reason I sleep on Sarah's sofa is because you have been playing the violin at four in the morning every other day? Not to mention your maggot experiment in the kitchen, honestly, that's not something I like seeing when I get up to make toast in the mornings."
Sherlock sighed. "We could spend an hour arguing about this, or you could do as I said," he said with an air of finality. "Judging from the way you're sitting, a good massage will go far towards alleviating the pain."
"And you know how to give a massage?" This conversation was getting weirder by the second.
"Of course, John, I wouldn't have offered if I didn't -- look," said Sherlock, pinching the bridge of his nose, "never mind, forget it. I was only trying to be nice."
"No, no," said John, rising from his chair. "I just thought that, you know, you only keep useful information on that hard drive of yours, massage isn't exactly a skill I thought you'd have in spades."
"It can be useful," Sherlock muttered, eyes downcast, but he was already flexing his long fingers and stretching his arms. John watched him move, entranced. What did he have to lose, really, by letting Sherlock try? His shoulders and back did ache, after all.
Sparing a glance to check the front door was closed, John unbuttoned his shirt and hung it from the arm of the sofa. He hesitated at the undershirt, but Sherlock simply interrupted and maneuvered him facedown onto the sofa much in the same way a policeman would subdue a fleeing suspect.
"This is probably going to hurt a bit at first," said Sherlock from somewhere above him. "You'll feel better afterwards."
It probably wasn't normal, having your flatmate insist on sitting on your legs and giving you a massage in the middle of the afternoon. Perfectly non-sexual, of course, at least for John. Was Sherlock even gay? Did he even like people? But at the first touch of Sherlock's hands on the top of his spine, John shivered, and then all coherent thought flew out of his head.
John had only gotten a professional massage once, two decades ago in Japan, on university vacation with a few of his mates. The masseuse had been very pretty, and had small, delicate hands, and so it had been easy to relax and breathe in the scent of perfume in the air. Now, however, Sherlock's insanely strong hands were digging into his muscles, and it felt like being hit repeatedly in the back with a small bag of rocks.
He was about to protest and call the whole thing off, but then suddenly Sherlock's fingers managed to work out a painful knot, and relief flooded through John's system as the muscle relaxed. He must have made some kind of noise, because Sherlock said, "Shh, John," and the movement abated for a split second before continuing.
He quickly lost track of time, concentrating only on the feeling of Sherlock's capable hands, stroking and kneading. It was altogether incredibly peaceful, and John was able to forget all about the long day he'd had at the surgery, the dwindling funds in his bank account, the infant fruit flies multiplying in the vegetable crisper. It seemed like an eternity before the pressure on his back let up, and Sherlock was saying, "All right, how do you feel?"
John blinked as the light hit him -- he hadn't even realized he'd closed his eyes. He levered himself up awkwardly into a sitting position, stretching and testing. He did feel a little sore, truthfully, but that was only to be expected.
"I feel, wow," said John, grinning at Sherlock, who had sat down cross-legged on the coffee table. "Feels great. Thank you." He rolled his shoulders back once again, just because. "You've really got a talent there, Sherlock. If you ever get tired of chasing after serial killers, you'd have no problem finding a second job."
Sherlock smiled back, looking almost bashful. "I'm glad it worked," he said, lacing his fingers together under his chin. "If you ever -- again -- don't hesitate to ask."
"Okay," said John, then: "and if you ever want one, I mean, I'm definitely not as good as you are, but I'm sure I can come up with something."
"That would be quite nice," said Sherlock, eyes bright. "I'll keep it in mind."