The first time was for a case.
It was a simple enough plan, really: Sherlock needed to look like he’d been attacked in order to gain access to The Woman’s residence. What better way to look attacked than to actually get attacked?
A quick punch in the face and a clerical collar later, Sherlock was in. But everyone knows about that one; it ended up on the blog.
John had had the stereo cranked up one day while he was hoovering. After Gary Glitter’s Let’s Get Sexy finished up, Eye of the Tiger began playing. And John, being John, happened to be a fan of the Rocky films. And John, being John, chose to stop hoovering and fight his own invisible Drago.
Sherlock chose that unfortunate moment to bodily insist that John turn around and pay attention to him, thus garnering him a punch smack dab in the ribs.
They unanimously decided to not mention that day again.
She and John were having a very-delightful-lunch-thank-you-very-much before Sherlock decided to crash it.
“But you weren’t answering my texts, John.”
“Because I’m having lunch with my sister, you dolt,” John answered through gritted teeth.
“No we weren’t,” Harry took a sip of her drink (water this time, please, just plain water, with a shot of gin) and made to get up. “We were making pleasant small talk until you decided that it was time to run off after some counterfeiter with your boyfriend here.” She threw some notes on the table and kissed John on the cheek.
“See you later, little brother.” She punched him playfully in the arm.
John made to return the punch, but Harry dodged, and John ended up punching Sherlock’s left hip.
Blushing like a schoolgirl, John got up from the table and bid a hasty retreat.
John silently decided not to mention that day again; Sherlock decided to tease him about it whenever the opportunity arose.
The “Jesus fucking Christ they finally did it” kiss.
Sherlock, being Sherlock in all his wonderful, infuriating, tactless glory, walked up to John one morning while he was preparing toast. John turned around, already surprised to see Sherlock, and found himself pinned against the counter. And Sherlock kissed John square on the mouth.
And John, being John, was also surprised to find himself kissing back.
It was a wonderful kiss: not too hard, but not too soft; not too dry, but with just the right amount of slip; not too –
John shoved the detective away and punched him in the stomach, only to pull him abruptly by the lapels into another kiss.
This kiss was full of months of unresolved sexual desires. It wasn’t nice or soft or considerate; this kiss was hard and hurried and rough. But it was still wonderful.
This one didn’t end up on the blog, but somehow, everyone at the Yard seemed to know anyway.
It began very much the same: John was in the kitchen one morning preparing toast. Sherlock, recently returned from the dead, stalked silently into the flat and up behind John. John turned around, completely shocked to see a very not-dead Sherlock standing in front of him, and found himself pinned against the counter.
Sherlock leaned in close and whispered, “I’m so sorry, John.”
White as the ghost he thought Sherlock to be, John dropped the toast he was holding, reared back, and punched a very not-dead Sherlock solidly on the jaw, landing an almost perfect uppercut.
Sherlock, caught off guard, crumpled to the ground clutching his chin.
“You bastard,” John choked out. “You fucking bastard.” He fell to his knees beside his very best friend in the whole world.
Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow, gingerly prodding at the bruise he was sure was blossoming. “I had to,” he began. “I had to John, I – “
“No. No words.” John said, leaning in. “Words are for later.” John then tenderly kissed Sherlock, who tenderly kissed back.
This one most decidedly did end up on the blog, kiss and all.
It was uneventful enough: he and John and Lestrade were out at a pub enjoying some another-successful-case drinks when, after one too many, he simply decided to punch John.
You know. To make them even (Sherlock swears that it was a perfectly logical argument at the time).
Sherlock stood, wobbling ever so slightly.
“John,” he began, immediately forgetting what he was going to say.
John and Lestrade looked at each other, and then at Sherlock. Lestrade raised an inquisitive eyebrow as John stood, hands in a placating position.
“Sherlock,” John began, “Think it’s time we went back to the flat, all right?”
Except it didn’t come out “all right”; it came out more like “all ri –“, because Sherlock took that moment to punch John in the chest. Not near his gunshot wound, mind you, but more centered, near the sternum, eliciting a satisfying crack.
John lost his wind. Sherlock broke his hand.
John, being John, recognized the crack right away, grabbed Sherlock by the arm and led him out of the pub, bidding Lestrade a hasty farewell.
Sherlock had to wear a cast for four weeks (the itching drove him mad).
John definitely put this one on the blog.