On Tuesday morning, the world outside Baker Street appears to be non-existent. All that can be heard are the heavy raindrops hitting the window, hard and frequent. There are no horns blaring, no shouting from the street, no explosions coming from the kitchen… Just rain.
The first thing John notices as he steps into the living room, is the figure curled up in his armchair, all long limbs and sharp edges. Sherlock Holmes breathes rhythmically and quietly, and John smiles at the sight. It's the absolute most peaceful he's ever seen the man. He won't wake him. Not yet; Sherlock barely gets enough sleep as it is. Instead, John pads silently across to the kitchen and begins making tea, not even grimacing this time when he opens the fridge to the sight of two dismembered hands in clear sandwich bags on the bottom shelf. He's long since grown accustomed to the weird items Sherlock keeps stocked in their kitchen. He doesn't make a fuss anymore; Sherlock always wins the argument, and it's always a lot more peaceful when John just lets the detective be. Anyway, he finds it amusing to watch Sherlock as he paces the length of their flat, or peering into microscopes, or microwaving human flesh, constantly muttering to himself so quickly that John can rarely make out the words. John often wonders what it's like to live in Sherlock's brain. Every thought meticulously stored away, but so crowded that it's a miracle he can fit any more information in there. He remains, to this day, in constant surprise that Sherlock's head hasn't exploded. John lets out a chuckle at the ridiculous thought, then finishes the tea, stirring quietly.
John savours that first sip, like he does every morning. It helps him to feel more awake, and it's always at this time that he contemplates the day ahead, adjusts his plans, and prepares himself for whatever madness Sherlock throws his way this time. But they just finished a case yesterday, and he's in no rush to scramble for a new one right this second, so he relaxes in the silence for just a minute, before deciding that he hates it. He's not used to it, and he misses Sherlock's rambling, which manages to be somehow both annoying and fascinating at the same time.
John stands in the doorway of the living room, sipping his tea and watching Sherlock. His jet black curls are madder than ever, springing in every direction. There's a tiny bead of drool at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, and it's bloody endearing. It's very rare, that he gets to see Sherlock like this, and he loves the times that he does.
He doesn't want to disturb him, though it's quite cold. The heating in the flat has not yet kicked in, and Sherlock's in only his silk pyjamas. John grabs the blanket they keep over the back of sofa and drapes it over his friend's sleeping form. The man shifts in his sleep and mumbles a little bit, of course he does. When has Sherlock ever been able to keep quiet for an extended amount of time?
It's at that moment Sherlock mutters something that sounds a lot like 'John', and his heart jumps straight into his throat. The reaction is unsurprising; it's not the first time his heart has reacted because of the taller man. John Watson is not gay, but Sherlock Holmes is most definitely the exception.
He supposes it began as some sort of strange hero-worship. There he was, fresh from the war with nothing to do and no one to welcome him back to the London he missed deeply. Suddenly, there was a man, tall, dark, and mysterious, solving crimes and running all over the city and offering him adventure. John was swept up in seconds, and he was in over his head before he even knew what was happening.
It's no secret that John is the one person Sherlock trusts, and he loves that feeling. His relationship with Sherlock makes him feel special, important, needed, and he's always thrilled when Sherlock says something affectionate or smiles fondly at him. He knows also, that Sherlock relishes in the way that John treats him as a close friend, an actual human being, when no one has before. Of course, Sherlock doesn't know the true extent of John's feelings (or maybe he does, but who can really figure out what goes on inside his head), but in any case, John doesn't think he'll ever be able to do anything about it. He doesn't know how. How to be with a man at all, and especially how to be with someone as eccentric and great as Sherlock Holmes.
But he wants to… He just wants.
Sherlock, perceptive even in his sleep, must be able to sense John's eyes on him. He wakes with a quiet gasp, his bright, unfocused blue eyes startling in the contrast of the dark flat. He looks at John, blinks four times. John counts, even though he feels awkward now that Sherlock knows he was watching him sleep. Still, he doesn't suppose Sherlock would find anything unusual about it. He is a man of observation, after all.
"Morning," he greets, but Sherlock doesn't hear him. His brain is already in overdrive, even though he's been awake for less than ten seconds.
"Get me tea," is his eventual, delayed response.
"Get your own tea," John replies, but does it anyway.
Sherlock is still sitting, staring at the wall when John walks back into the living room, and he nudges the man, offering him the steaming mug.
"Hey," he says, and Sherlock turns to look at him, seemingly unseeing. "You okay?"
The man waves off the question and accepts the tea, taking a long gulp as if it was simply water. John raises his eyebrows, although Sherlock doesn't seem to notice if he's burnt his tongue or not, just sits the mug down, rises to his feet, then begins pacing. John sinks onto the couch, watching curiously.
"You could say thank you,," he instructs. Sherlock looks at him, as if he's only just noticed he's there.
"Thank you," he says, and then stops. "I had a dream."
"I don't often have dreams, John. They're merely a distraction. I tend not to let myself sleep so deeply that my subconscious takes over. Dreams are irrelevant."
John doesn't understand at all where this is going, but he nods slowly, the corners of his lips turning upwards as Sherlock flounces onto the couch beside him. "Okay, so you had a dream, and?"
"It has unsettled me."
It's like probing information out of a very stubborn, distracted child. "Well, what was the dream about?"
Sherlock doesn't answer the question, and instead falls down onto the couch beside John in one sharp, fluid motion. John blinks.
"John," Sherlock says, very seriously. "Can I try something? Though I feel obliged to warn you that there's an admittedly high chance you won't like it."
John is wary for understandable reasons. "Will it hurt?"
Sherlock's eyes crinkle in what John thinks is mild amusement. "I don't imagine so. I'm not very experienced in these matters."
John is still for a second, then shrugs. He can never say no to the man. "Do what you must, oh great one."
Sherlock smiles genuinely at that, then scoots closer to John on the couch. His eyes are glued to his, and John can't help but feel a little self-conscious, maybe even intimidated under his gaze. Sherlock moves closer still, and suddenly, he can feel the other man's warm breath on his face.
"Sherlock," John tries to sound normal but it comes out as a whispery breath, his intimidation evident in his voice. "What are you-"
"Sssh," Sherlock cuts him off impatiently. Without any sort of warning, his long, slender fingers are on John's face, fiery hot against his skin. He's uncharacteristically tender as he trails his fingers across John's cheeks, over his lips. John isn't quite sure how to breathe anymore, and as a doctor, he isn't as alarmed as he should be. All he can do is watch, wait, try not to die before whatever this is actually happens.
It's hesitant, he can be sure of that. Sherlock's brow is furrowed, like he doesn't know what he's doing, but determined to try anyway. The expression isn't an unfamiliar one, but in this context it's entirely new. John licks his lips, an involuntary movement. Sherlock's stare drops to John's mouth, watching the action. Foreheads meet. Warmth everywhere. Eyelids unblinking.
It's slow, unsure. But completely purposeful. Sherlock's face moves torturously closer, inch by inch, his stare uncertain and unknowledgeable. He tilts his head ever so slowly, obviously mapping out his next move, but John can't help himself. He tilts his head up just slightly, and suddenly, their lips are touching.
The kiss is soft, exploratory. Lips move against each other chastely, getting a feel for the other, It's exceptionally easy, John realizes, to kiss Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock pulls back then, wearing an unreadable expression. He sounds almost insecure when he asks in a hushed voice. "Did I do it correctly?"
John breathes out a tiny laugh at that and nods, because he thinks he might have forgotten how to use words. His blood is drumming so hard in his ears that he can barely even think. Sherlock may be the clever one, the brilliant genius of the two; certainly the most impressive. But this, kissing, is something John knows he's rather talented at, and he realizes that he has to be the teacher in this situation. He has to guide Sherlock, for a change. He thinks he'll be good at that.
One of John's hand slides around the back of Sherlock's neck, and the other man shivers at the touch, his eyes widening at his body's reaction. John smiles. Sherlock smiles back. John's thumb brushes the smooth skin, before tugging lightly at a lock of dark curls. Sherlock's mouth parts, and John uses that as his opportunity. Smoothly, he glides in to capture Sherlock's lower lip between his own, and sucks the tiniest bit, causing his friend to let out a gasp against him. It doesn't take long for Sherlock to get the hang of it; he picks up new information extraordinarily easily. Soon, lips are moving together, both giving and taking, and when John first uses his tongue against Sherlock's, the man arches into him, gripping John's shoulder tightly, the other hand on his cheek, keeping him close. He tastes like tea.
They're both flushing when they eventually break apart, breathing elevated and lips swollen. Neither of the men speak for several moments, though they're reluctant to let go of each other. Eventually, Sherlock lets his arms fall away from John, and John does the same.
"Well," Sherlock says finally. "That was very much adequate."
"Right. I uh, I agree," John is flustered. Sherlock can tell. "That was your dream," he says in sudden understanding, and he's torn; both pleased that Sherlock dreamt about this and worried that it was purely about satisfying Sherlock's unpredictable, busy mind.
"Yes," Sherlock speaks very slowly, a rarity. "A first. However, I don't think I'll be opposed to more dreams of the sort." He pauses, his eyes still uncertain as he looks at John. "I'm not really sure how to deal with this subject matter. You'll have to be patient with me."
John knows. He does. God, his heart is racing and he's not sure how to feel about this entire thing, but he doesn't seem to be alone in that aspect. With a nod of his head, he touches Sherlock's jawline, thumbs smoothing over the chiselled bone. "It doesn't matter, we'll just…" He doesn't know how to finish that sentence, but Sherlock seems to understand. He understands most things.
John Watson isn't gay, but Sherlock Holmes is most definitely the exception.