Summertime was coming to a close, and for the first time in a very long time, 17-year-old Sherlock had a friend. Young John Watson was funny, smart, yet still average enough that Sherlock felt awed when John would describe him as ‘ extraordinary’.
They had met at the beginning of June. The days had already begun to get warmer, so Sherlock had often ditched his tie and jacket, as the school had allowed a slip in the dress-code for exam-goers.
He’d taken a leisurely walk home on his last day having just finished his final mock-exam, feeling a treat for himself was in order. He strolled through the wildlife that surrounded the small town and connected to the back of the Holme’s manor, following the creek and taking a pause at his special place - a small clearing at the edge of the creek that lead to a small set of mossy rocks and rapids. Mycroft had been back only a couple of days, and was found, as per usual these days, entertaining their parents in the parlour whenever Sherlock appeared home from school. After not having visited for the Easter hols; it seemed he felt the need to make up for it. (Sherlock didn’t much mind, he preferred the house without Mycroft. Mummy, however had thrown a fit and a half when the news came that her eldest would be staying at Oxford for the holidays.) So, when Sherlock grabbed an apple from the kitchen, he was rather startled by the unfamiliar laughter coming from the living room.
Mycroft had mentioned he’d made a few acquaintances at Oxford, maybe someone had come to stay?
With the demeanour of a cautious cat, Sherlock set his apple down by the hall table, crept down the hallway, and peeped into the living room. Mummy and daddy were sat side by side, Mycroft to their right, across from three new people Sherlock had never seen before. Now it was a pretty small village, and for someone like Sherlock to not recognise someone, meant only one thing; they were not locals. The not-locals, as Sherlock had dubbed them in his head, where obviously a lot less wealthy than the Holmes’ family, all dressed in what seemed to be their Sunday best (due to the uncomfortable way they all seemed to sit in these clothes - fidgeting, yet not picking at threads or twirling buttons) they still looked like something out of a trashy soap-opera.
Two children and an adult.
Obviously the father had just passed away, as the woman still adorned her wedding ring - had she left him or been left, no ring would be in sight, and she definitely wouldn’t have been rubbing at it tenderly every now and then, which indicated a sense of loss. There was a hollowness behind her eyes that could have only been there after a death of some kind - therefore her husband was no longer with them, as opposed to simply being at work. She was frail and by the yellowing of her finger nails, had recently picked up smoking - a boring case, Sherlock thought, she read like an open book. The young girl next to her had short, blonde hair, big blue eyes, and despite being around 12-years-old was sucking her thumb, an obviously recently picked up habit, shown by how she would forget to do it every now and then. Leaving her thumb in her mouth without actually sucking at it. Yet another indicator that a close family member of theirs had passed away was the way she was burrowed into her mother's side, whose arm was wrapped tightly around her, as if to protect - yet they were both quite safe and comfortable in the Holmes house. Neither seemed to be on edge or anxious, yet both still sought comfort. Sentiment was a human defect, Mycroft had told him once, so fleetingly Sherlock moved on to the last occupant of the royal blue sofa.
A young boy with tawny blond hair, and sapphire eyes stared straight at Sherlock, lips twitching into a grin that seemed to say, “Ha! I caught you!” Sherlock blinked at him, ever so slightly shocked. Despite the obvious grief his sister and mother held, the boy (who was definitely Sherlock’s age, if not, older) seemed to be completely unaffected. A step-father, maybe? Yet he and the girl were both too similar in looks…
Sherlock looked closer, ah, there it is. His stance was stoic, almost military-like, some people would say disciplined, others who knew better, would say abused. He had the look of a stay dog or cat that was wondering if it should trust again or not. Immediately, Sherlock decided he wanted to learn more about this boy.
“Ah, so wonderful of you to join us, brother mine. Now are you going to stand at the door all day or say hello to our guests?” Sherlock glowered at his brother for giving away his position, but preened as his mother piped up in his defence.
“Now, Mycroft, don’t be rude to your brother. How was the exam dear?” She asked, to which Sherlock gave a forced smile.
“Dull, I was done much before everyone else.” He turned to glance at the other family, catching the boys gaze yet again, “Hello… my name is Sherlock.”
“‘Course, we’ve heard all about you. I’m Jane Watson, and this is my daughter Harriet and my son John. We’ve just moved into the village.” Her accent was softer than most cockney accents Sherlock had heard, yet was still very prominent. What Sherlock clung to most, however, was her son’s name, John.
They locked eyes again and John suddenly smiled at him. Taken slightly off guard, Sherlock was startled when Harriet gave a tempered huff, yanking the thumb from her mouth to say, rather petulantly, “Mum! You know I don’t like being called Harriet, it’s Harry!”
They’d spent the next half an hour discussing boring adult things, like the weather and schools, plans for the future, etcetera, (however not so boring when discussing John’s plans for the future, to enlist in the army as a medic, the unspoken ‘university is too expensive right now’ hung heavily around John - as if he had had this exact conversation with his mother way too many times) then, finally Mummy said, “Alright you young lot, go off and play. Dinner will be at 7, come on Jane, the four of us will retire to the drawing room. Sherlock why don’t you take Harriet and John to the kitchen for a snack.”
When she, daddy, Mycroft and Mrs Watson had moved on and they’d arrived in the kitchen Sherlock turned to John, with curiosity on his lips and said, “So, which was it, football or rugby?”
John blinked at him as if he’d gone mad, “Sorry, what?” Well, that had confirmed Sherlock’s wonderings on whether or not both Harry and John had narrowly avoided the horrendous accent. There was a lilt to John’s tone, but he seemed accentuate his words much more than his mother had.
“Um, Mr. Sherlock?” Harry tugged lightly on his shirt sleeve, obviously she had yet to have a growth spurt, and due to the look of John and their mother - height wasn’t in the family.
“Yes, Harry?” Sherlock didn’t really know what to do with a pre-teen. Sherlock didn’t really know what to do with anyone who wasn’t a direct family member, if he was being completely honest.
“Oh, yay! You remembered! Hardly anyone remembers, all my teachers call me Harriet! Except for Miss Oswald, she remembers, that’s why she’s my favourite.” Harry grinned up at him, having obviously gone off track.
“Of course I remembered, I remember all the important things.” Sherlock said unblinkingly, as if it was something of real importance. Harry’s smile seemed to widen, “Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?”
“Oh!” Her smile turned sheepish, “I was… um… well do you have a house phone I could use? I promise I’ll only be five minutes! I just want to call my best friend, Clara…”
“Harry, you can’t-,” John began, the furrow in his brow signifying he didn’t really want to be telling his sister off.
“Of course there is, right down the hallway on the left, there’s a desk and a phone, it even has a chair. Take as long as you like - we hardly ever use it, anyway.” Why on earth Sherlock was being so kind to these people, he couldn’t really fathom, only that he really wanted a few moments alone with John - to study him, of course.
John stared at him, whilst Harry gave a squeal of delight and threw her arms around Sherlock’s mid-section, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” She cried, rushed off down the hallway, and within minutes was babbling to, who Sherlock assumed was, ‘Clara’.
“Wow, that was really nice of you, but just because she gives you those puppy-dog eyes, doesn’t mean you have to give her everything that she wants.” John chuckled after a while.
“That's a bit hypocritical, coming from you, wouldn’t you say?” Before John could do much more than scowl at the accusing comment, Sherlock elaborated, “I mean, isn’t that what you do? I’m guessing from the way you look at her and act around her, you’re the type of brother who lets her stay up late when your mum isn’t looking, and you secretly buy her the chocolate she likes every weekend? You probably let her sleep in bed with you after watching a scary film or if she has a nightmare? Am I wrong?”
John stammered over his words for a moment, “I-well, no- how did you?”
“Didn’t think so, now back to my previous question, rugby or football?” Sherlock persisted, eyes narrowed in focus.
“If you’re asking what sport I used to play in high school, that would be rugby, but how did you-,” John was cut off again, and despite the baffled annoyance on his face, he had yet to shout at Sherlock like most others in his situation had.
“Rugby, of course - and I know you played a sport because you’re more physically fit that most teenage boys our age, obviously you haven’t been going to a gym - where would you find the time or money for that? So that leaves a sport, you’ve got broad shoulders, not the physic of a tennis player or a swimmer, you’re used to playing in teams, I can tell that from your friendliness, you’re used to meeting new people, which is odd as your sister and mother seem to be very antisocial in their behaviours, which leaves team sports, and therefore the most popular British team sports for the working class - rugby or football?” Sherlock finished his speech, waiting for the following anger patiently. When no anger came, Sherlock nervously took another glance at John and continued with his deducing, “I can also tell you’ve moved here because your father recently passed away, I overheard before I came in that our mothers used to go to school together, so I’m guessing your mum moved you up here to get away from any memories of your father, yet she didn’t want to feel alone in the move. However, you seem to be the only one unfazed by his death. Your mother still wears his ring, Harry’s sucking her thumb again, both obvious coping mechanisms, but you, you’re fine. In most part - I’m guessing you had a breakdown when it happened? Sudden then, either an incurable illness - obviously your family don’t do visits to the doctors for various reasons, be it money for prescriptions or… privacy,” John flinched at that, Sherlock’s earlier suspicions were solid now, “so he got ill and it wasn’t until he was on deaths door anyone knew, or he was killed in a work accident. From your mother’s accent, I can tell you’re working class, housewife, probably, if not something small to keep money coming in - waitress, shop assistant, etcetera - But your father, now he was a working man's man. Building, construction, something like that. So there leaves the choice from illness or work accident, however due to the fact you’ve moved so far away, I’m guessing your mother had some time to plan, save money - a couple of months maybe? Plus what used to be your university fund, so she made arrangements, that house on Oak Crescent was sold a week ago, and now you turn up - you haven’t just come here for hospitality. Which explains, your mother brought you here because she needs a friend, not just an introduction to the neighbours, the death of a husband is a hard thing to go through alone. So is the death of a father… but not for you. Maybe it’s because you love the rest of your family too much, or it’s because you didn’t love the abuse.”
“Okay, how could you possibly know about that?” John spoke for the first time in minutes, and was now gazing unblinkingly at Sherlock.
Sherlock grinned, “Ah, yes, a shot in the dark that one, but you just confirmed a moment ago when I mentioned ‘privacy’. Now, privacy is something crucial to someone hiding a secret, there wouldn’t be privacy in changing rooms, which is why your father stopped you from playing rugby. It’s obvious you still love the sport, so would never quit by yourself and will stop at nothing to carry on playing, be that professionally with a league, or amateur games with friends. I’m guessing he also saw the sport as being homoerotic in subtext and pulled you out of it so you wouldn’t turn out ‘gay’ or some such other malarkey. Now, of course going for annual check-ups would possibly compromise your parents so blissfully constricted image of the nuclear family, should someone notice the plethora of bruises normally on your skin. There’s no doubt that he wouldn’t be sneaky about it, a prideful man, wouldn’t want anyone finding out he gets blind drunk and beats his son whilst his wife and daughter pretend nothing’s happening in another room - so no doctors, brushing visible only where clothing can hide, which shows in the way you dress. Long jeans, despite it being the middle of summer, there’s nothing to hide but the action has been beaten into you. You’re wearing a dark shirt, and still are wearing a tank top underneath, obviously to make sure no skin discolouration is detected. Your stance, the way you sit, the way you addressed my father, calling him ‘Sir’, more than a few times, I would’ve guessed a military background, but you’re only 17, and there haven’t been any wars, no reason your father needed to have enlist, so no military background. Just a father with a killer left hook when he’s wasted half the weeks wages on too many pints of dish-water tasting beer.”
There was another long pause.
“Did I leave anything out?”
He hadn’t been able to eat his apple before, it was still sitting on the floor in the hall where he’d left it after noticing the Watsons’ were there. So he moved to the bowl to pick out another, taking a bite, he almost choked when he glanced up at John’s awed, and not angered face.
“That was…” John trailed off searching for words it seemed - ah, Sherlock had miscalculated the reaction, of course he was stunned to silence with how rude Sherlock had been.
“Rude? Invasive? Completely inhumane?” Sherlock supplied, readying himself for the barrage of insults.
“I was going to say extraordinary.” John muttered, “How… how did you know all of that? Just from looking at me? Honestly that is insane, that’s actually amazing.”
Sherlock felt a heat rise to his cheekbones from the gush of compliments, having only ever received them from few teachers and his parents, hearing such things from John seemed to send Sherlock into a momentary stupa. Sherlock cleared his throat.
“I… that’s not what people usually say.”
John gave him a bemused smile, “Why? What do they normally say?”
“‘Piss off.’” John seemed slightly taken aback from Sherlock’s language, obviously thinking posh people didn’t swear, “Or ‘bugger off’, take your pick.”
Sherlock was met with silence for a moment, before John was letting out a full, belly-aching fit of laughter, eyes squeezed shut and almost hunched over, clutching at his stomach. Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle along with him, laughing quietly behind closed, yet upturned, lips.
“Well,” John began after calming down slightly, “you know what people say. If you don’t understand it, then it’s automatically weird. But, you know what, screw anyone who ever told you to ‘piss off’, you’re seriously intelligent. Obviously, in the future, whilst you’re out making the world a better place, all those who mocked you for being smarter than they are, will be busy becoming petrol station attendants, or till servers in Sainsbury’s.”
They laughed again at that.
“You did miss one thing, though.” John cleared his throat, “It used to be mum. It started with her. I told him to hit me instead. That was before I started playing rugby, I was about ten when he first hit me. He didn’t make me quit to hide the bruises, he made me quit because he found out I was bisexual.”
“There’s always something.” Sherlock locked eyes with John, knowing that apologising for what John’s father had put him through, wouldn’t help. John was the type of man who would talk only if he felt the need to, definitely not if he was prodded at, “Now, you want to be a doctor, help me with something, completely hypothetical. So a man has been murdered-,”
From that moment on, they were nearly inseparable through the entire summer hols. Sherlock was trying to teach John his art of deduction, most boringly obvious things John could see, but almost everything of importance needed to be pointed out or showcased. They spent hours solving petty crimes, for instance, who had stolen Mrs Hinkley’s prized cottage-pie recipe (really no one had, Sherlock had solved that one within seconds of being in the house and noticing the ashen smell which hadn’t come from the log fire but instead a poorly hidden pile of paper ashes on the floor of the kitchen, but he’d still spent the day trying to figure it out with John, until he’d finally come to the only sane conclusion himself; self sabotage) or capturing the culprit who was painting unsavoury things onto all the police cars in town (an old bully of Sherlock’s from the year above, Brendon Ward who’d returned for the summer hols, and was now doing community service for the church), and the most riveting of all crimes, the murder of Whiskers, the British shorthair who’d been the towns beloved cat for decades (that had turned out to be a hit and run, no malicious intent, just an asshole with no regards for local pets), they had become the crime-solving duo of the town.
John and Harry, who visited mostly and only for the phone and the food, practically lived at the manor, which was actually pretty good for their mum, who spent hours setting up her home business as a seamstress (she was quite good, even Sherlock could admit without bias, she’d once mended one of Sherlock’s suit jackets after it had been ripped in a tussle with a shoplifter, and she’d had it back to him, almost good as new in hours) so she could spend more time setting herself up to be a more steady income of money for her children. Sherlock had never had a friend before, and the moment when John first called him his friend, Sherlock had almost teared up. The two had been stopped by a group of teenagers that went to Sherlock’s sixth form, where John would be attending for his last year in the coming autumn, and immediately began shouting abuse at Sherlock.
One Sally Donovan’s voice was the loudest of them all, “Oi, freak! Go back to your mansion, bet mummy’s missing you, isn’t she?”
With narrowed eyes and a set jaw, Sherlock turned, only to see three more of her friends, along with Phil Anderson right behind him. Damn it, he thought explosively, he’d been hoping to keep this from John at least until they got back to school - weren’t all these idiots supposed to be on holiday in Ibiza or some other such moronic holiday destination?
“Where do you think you’re going freak? Running off back to mummy?” Phil sneered, looking quite pleased with himself.
Sherlock set him an unimpressed look, “Anderson, don’t talk out loud, you tend to lower the IQ of the entire street. And, please if you’re going to try to insult someone, do be original, instead of just copying your dreary girlfriend.”
Anderson threw his hands up in exasperation, but Donovan wasn’t fazed, “Shut up, freak, he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Hmm, agree to disagree.” Again, Phil bristled at Sherlock’s comment.
“Anyway, who’s this? Did your mum pay someone to spend time with you? Wow, that’s really something.” Sally laughed, her friends, who flanked her rather like cronies than anything else, barked out their own cackles. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes, glaring stubbornly at the floor.
“Come on, John, lets go-,”
“Go? What, no! You’re seriously going to let them talk to you like that?” John looked incredulously at him, before turning to glare at Sally, “Listen here, what gives you the right to talk to my friend like that? And no I’m not being paid, thank you very much, he’s got too much dignity for that, unlike you, who apparently has no dignity whatsoever.”
Sally’s nostrils flared angrily at John, and she took a menacing step forwards, only for Anderson to come to her rescue, “At least she’s not a bloody psychopath!”
“I’m not a psychopath, Anderson, I’m a high-functioning sociopath, do your research.” Sherlock growled, only to still slightly when he felt a calming hand on his arm.
“Listen!” John shouted, turning to glare both at Sally and Anderson in turn, “You know what, at least Sherlock isn’t a mindless bully like the lot of you. You see something different and take the piss out of it, when in reality, he’s going far, and you?” John gave a scoff, “You’re all nothing, highschool has-been’s waiting to happen. You’ll probably get a mediocre job, have mediocre spouses and a mediocre home, with a couple of mediocre children and a mediocre affair - which is the same mediocre affair you’ve probably been having since… hmmm, let’s say high school, with the same mediocre non-orgasm-inducing sex, for the rest of your miserable, mediocre lives. So, if you’ll excuse us, we actually have somewhere important to be.”
John had grabbed Sherlock by the arm and marched away with him, a stormy look on his face as Donovan called back in a futile, last-ditch effort to retain the last word, “Oh yeah? Where so important!?”
“Literally anywhere you aren’t.” And with that, for once, Sherlock was on the winning side of a fight with Sally Donovan. All because of John Watson, averagely extraordinary in his own way.
As soon as they’d fought their way through the brush and into a copse of trees, Sherlock yanked on John’s arm to stop him and before he could say a word, pulled him into a bone crushing hug. He buried his face into John’s neck and took a deep, ragged breath, willing away the wetness in his eyes. Tactfully, John said nothing for a few minutes, and simply returned the hug, rubbing his hands up and down the arc of Sherlock’s spine.
“Don’t pay them any mind, Sherlock, they’re all just idiots.” John mumbled into Sherlock’s hair, despite him being much taller. Sherlock was almost hunched over in his embrace with John, yet he was more comfortable than he’d ever been standing straight, just being this close to John caused a wash of calm to sweep over him.
“Thank you.” Sherlock had whispered, slowly pulling back from the embrace, “Really, I don’t care what they say, I know it’s not true.”
“Wrong.” John grinned, voice imitating Sherlock’s own usual impassive dismissal, “You do care, you pretend that you don’t. It’s okay to care. I care about you Sherlock, which is why I had to stand up for you. Also, you’re not a sociopath, being autistic doesn’t make you a sociopath!” John paused then, face a mess of worry, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that-,”
Sherlock smiled, “Very good, John, how did you know? Most people just assume I’m a psychopath, as you previously witnessed.”
John fumbled for a minute, recovering from thinking he’d offended Sherlock, which was nonsense, because he’d been quite right in his deducing, “Well… I had a friend in primary school, he was a lot less high-functioning than you, but you’re aspergic, right? You show some of the same behaviours he did. The most obvious is your lack of understanding social signals and cues, which is what makes people think of you as ‘weird’ or ‘different’. You’re obsessive with your cases, and your deducing - and let’s not forget your bees.” Sherlock smiled at that. He’d remembered when they’d been curling up on the red sofa together in the living room, watching some silly sitcoms on the tv, someone had killed a bee for comedic effect and Sherlock had become so angry - John had found it quite funny, but was sympathetic all the same, “From what I can gather, before I came along, you’ve had a complete lack of interest for people in general, and didn't have any friends, which still upsets you.” Sherlock opened his mouth to defensively disagree, but John shut him up with a look, “Also, your complete lack of understanding for sarcasm just tops it off.”
Sherlock hummed, “All of this doesn’t necessarily make me autistic, but you aren’t wrong, you’ve only listed the more prominent symptoms I show.”
“Yes, yes. I also know that you prefer to think of yourself as a sociopath, even though, clearly you’re capable of emotion and at least some empathy.” John laughed, “But, no matter, it’s all the same to me Sherlock, you’re still my friend, no matter what any of those pricks out there say about you. I know you’re not a psycho, and I know that despite your weird experiments, and your brilliant brain that runs over 100 miles-per-hour, and your unemotional front, you’re no freak. You’re extraordinary. And you’re my friend.”
Sherlock smiled at him, “You’re my friend too, John. I’m not half as extraordinary as you are.” John didn’t say anything to that, because he knew Sherlock wasn’t talking about his smarts, but the change he brought to Sherlock’s life.
It had been several weeks since that day, and no matter what Sherlock did John only got seriously mad at him once.
They’d been solving a case - Sherlock couldn’t even remember what it was about now - and they’d been interviewing a girl a little younger than they were, Sherlock had been so harsh on her he’d brought her to tears. That had been a no-no for John and when Sherlock had sneered, “Oh, she’ll get over it, sentiment it simply a human defect, John! Really, I’ve weighed everything, and some tears from her are hardly worth saving for the end goal!” John stood up and made to leave the room.
“I don’t care if I hurt her feelings, John! What I care about is solving the case!”
John had turned back and shouted, “But I care! You machine!”
John had left him there, and within minutes Sherlock had finished the case and anonymously tipped the local police. Then he’d gone back to the manor to sulk. It took two days before Sherlock realised what an arse he’d been, and from Harry no less, who’d practically been living with Sherlock and John at the manor, making phone calls to Clara whenever she could.
“You should apologise.” She’d said one day, passing him in the hall, having just hung up the phone, “He’s angry… but mostly upset. He thinks you don’t care about him.”
Sherlock had scowled at her, “But that’s stupid-,”
“Exactly.” She looked up at him with her big, amused eyes, “It’s stupid to make him think that, so go over and bloody apologise to him. And make it mushy, he’s got a soft spot for mushy.”
Sherlock blinked at her and then went to grab his jacket, “You’re smarter than you think.”
Harry shrugged, “Nah, just know when someone else is being an arse.”
Sherlock stared warily at her, “Aren’t you too young to use that language?”
She sent him a wink, “Only when mum’s around.”
Her comment had only caused Sherlock to ache, knowing it was John who’d let her curse - John who’d accepted Sherlock within a heartbeat, John who’d stood up for him after knowing him only a week, John who always made sure the fridge at home was stocked and his mother had eaten, and that Sherlock had eaten. John with a heart of gold. John, who Sherlock had tossed aside due to sheer pride and stupidity.
“Bugger.” He mumbled and hoped he wasn’t too late. He rushed straight over to the Watson’s, and sheepishly asked John to join him on a walk before saying anything else. They’d arrived in a clearing by a creek - a place that had once just been Sherlock’s, and had, over the weeks, now become theirs - and sat down side by side, John began to skim stones. They’d sat in silence for a moment, before Sherlock launched into a stilted and awkward apology, explaining how stupid he felt for pushing John away like that, and before he could finish John himself was giving reasons why he had been wrong to stay so angry at Sherlock.
Soon after they were back to being as sickeningly sweet as before, now Sherlock was a little more mindful of how he acted to others, occasionally turning to John to ask if something he’d said or done was “not good”, to which John would usually reply with a fond, “yeah, bit not good, Sherlock”.
Now, they were alone by a creek in the woods past the back of the Holmes manor, John’s shirt was torn from his shoulder to his belly leaving room for golden skin to peak from its depths. Like children, only moments before they’d been pretending to be pirates, slashing at each other with sticks for swords. In a final battle fought most valiantly, John had slipped on a mossy rock and tumbled to a most imminent death, but not before Sherlock grabbed onto his shirt, thought momentarily victory, and then the fabric was ripping, John was falling and Sherlock was stumbling after him. So now they lay next to each other, sunlight slowly drying them. Freckles adorned John’s neck and chest, littering his skin like clusters of constellations, and Sherlock was fascinated.
Suddenly he felt compelled to move forward, and trace those stars with a trail of kisses, but he held back. Eyes moving to lock with John’s gaze from under his curls. He stared intently, irrevocably, unwaveringly at him, as if it were the first time he was seeing John Watson. He’d had many moments like this before over the summer, he’d spent hours alone at night thinking of the precise twinkle in John’s smile. The galaxy of colours that revolved his eyes, his laugh, the way his hair fell, the way his tone of voice changed when Sherlock looked at him a certain way. The way he-
“... Sherlock?” John seemed a little taken aback by the intensity of Sherlock’s stare, “Is there something wrong?”
Sherlock shook his head and began to shift, he couldn’t hold back any longer, “No.” he breathed, “Please don’t… freak out.” He murmured, then he was moving closer and closer to John. Eyes locked onto John’s lips, his own shirt, an unbuttoned white cotton, was draped haphazardly on his shoulders, and it slipped down his arms as he moved to glide a hand over John’s chest, and up his neck to rest on his face.
His gaze flickered to John’s eyes, as if to ask, ‘may I?’
Then, slowly, Sherlock leaned in, eyes open and studying John’s face as he lightly pressed his lips to John’s. When he made no move to discourage Sherlock, the taller boy began to kiss him again and again, eyes now slid shut he moved from his face to his neck. He followed the breadcrumb-path of freckles down John’s torso and tore the rest of the shirt away with a simple tug. He trailed delicate kisses back and forth between John’s abdomen and the corner of his lips. Then, suddenly, as if he’d only just realised what was going on, John reacted. He surged into action, capturing Sherlock’s lips with his own and, opening his mouth hungrily, he allowed Sherlock to swipe his tongue over John’s lips.
John moaned weakly into the kiss, eyes fluttering shut as Sherlock left his lips in favour of kissing back down his chest and abdomen. Sherlock sat up, hooking a leg over John’s, to rest inbetween the other boy’s thighs. His nimble fingers made quick work of John’s jeans and belt, unbuckling them to yank them down his legs. Once again, Sherlock glanced up to ask for permission.
“Fuck, please, Sherlock.” John moaned, a deep flush painted across his torso and up to his neck, he was so lost in the sensations he hadn’t realised how far they’d come. Sherlock grinned and went back to kissing John’s chest, lower and lower, he followed the happy trail of hair down to the line of his underwear, then down again to his upper thighs.
“Wait- hold on- wait a minute.” John let out a breath, pushing gently at Sherlock’s shoulders to have him sit back up, “Sherlock-,”
“Sorry, did I do something wrong? I didn’t… did I misinterpret…?” John almost melted at Sherlock’s lost tone of voice, and quickly shook his head.
“No, God, of course not, you didn’t do anything wrong Sherlock- I just… Are you sure about this?” John captured Sherlock’s eyes in a piercing gaze, “I don’t want you to ever do anything you don’t want to.”
Mollified that he wasn’t in the wrong, Sherlock grinned, and moved to place his lips next to John’s ear, and whispered, “John, when have I ever done something I don’t want to?”
The huskiness to Sherlock’s voice sent a shiver that rolled through John’s whole body. Slower this time, Sherlock followed his kiss-trail back down, giving John more time to process what was happening. He continued to caress and kiss, occasionally swiping his tongue over a particularly sensitive spot - earning more and more moans and noises from John.
Sherlock palmed John through his pants before hurriedly getting rid of them, then suddenly he paused. He stared lustfully at the flushed head of John’s cock, tongue darting out to lick his lips. A droplet of pre-cum dribbled onto John’s abdomen as his prick sprung to attention.
“Stand up.” Sherlock ordered, watching with lidded eyes as John stumbled to his feet and leaned back against the trunk of the tree they’d been under. Sherlock shuffled forwards to meet John, tracing his hands up John’s thighs to rest at his hips, pushing back experimentally. Then he leaned forward, pecked the head and moved down to lap at the pool of pre-cum above John’s hip. He made his way back to John’s cock and began to pump with his fist, tongue swirling around the tip and dipping into the slit at the top. John’s knees quaked slightly at that, one of his hands came down to fist into Sherlock’s hair, the other clung onto the tree bark as Sherlock suddenly dropped his hand and encased John’s cock with his lips. Tongue still swirling, Sherlock slowly made his way down, inch by inch, letting John’s dick slide further past his lips.
Cheeks hollowed out, Sherlock swallowed around him and John’s hips gave an involuntary thrust.
Keening noises erupted from John’s throat, mouth now hung open in bliss loud moans echoing around them as Sherlock continued to wreck John with his mouth.
“Oh- Oh fuck, Sherlock please, I’m going to-,” John let out a high pitched gasp and his knees buckled forward again, “Sherlock!” He groaned, “Sherlock- I’m going to-!”
Sherlock looked up at John through his lashes and caught John’s thoroughly wrecked appearance. His lips were swollen from kisses, mottled bruises sucked into his skin marked a trail up his collar bone, and his eyes were molten with lust.
Without blinking Sherlock inhaled through his nose and pulled off, dragging his tongue over the ribbed underside of John’s cock. Then, almost instantly, he swallowed back down, cheeks hollowed and saliva dripping down his chin.
At this, John made an incoherent sound.
“Sherlock!” In that same high pitched gasp, and he was coming in ribbons down Sherlock’s throat. The taller boy gagged slightly, swallowing down as much of the ejaculate as he could, the salty, yet bitter taste wasn’t totally revolting. The fluid dripped from the corners of Sherlock’s lips, and as he looked up, John collapsed to the ground, practically glowing. He kissed Sherlock passionately, like a dying man in a dessert in desperate need of water, with Sherlock as his only supply.
His tongue flicked out to capture the drop from Sherlock’s chin, and then delved back into Sherlock’s mouth. He swallowed with a moan and John quickly yanked his pants back up and slid his hands up Sherlock’s chest. He hooked his fingers under the material of Sherlock’s shirt and pushed it the rest of the way off his shoulders, before unbuttoning Sherlock’s trousers, pushing them off Sherlock’s legs and glancing up to check that pants-off was okay too.
With a quick nod from Sherlock, whose face was flushed red, John began to stroke Sherlock from base to top, twisting at just the right angle to have Sherlock throw his head back. John started to kiss up Sherlock’s chest, biting and sucking his way up to Sherlock’s neck. Once he found the most sensitive spot, he bit down, tongue flicking over the skin as he sucked it into a blossoming bruise. He carried on with his ministrations up to Sherlock’s ear lobe, taking the flesh into his mouth and tugging on it gently to elicit another one of those breathy moans from Sherlock’s lips.
“What do you want?” John whispered.
“I-I don’t, I haven’t done this... before.” Sherlock gasped, eyes clenched shut. John paused to look Sherlock in the eye.
“You’ve never…” John babbled, “But you just- that just then- you. Fuck. Sherlock you’ve never blown someone before?”
Sherlock peaked up impatiently at the pause in action, “No. Why?”
John groaned low in his throat, “This is so arousing.” He murmured, “Never been touched. I’m the first to touch you like this. Have you been kissed before? But you still seem so experienced… God, the way your mouth works, I’ll be ruined for everyone else, ever.”
Sherlock heated at the wanton words, but shook them from his head, “If you keep stalling, you won’t be the first to touch me right now.”
John snapped back into action and continued to pull Sherlock off, “Answer my question. What do you want?”
“I…” Sherlock cleared his throat, “What can I have?”
“Anything. I could suck you off, like you did to me… I could edge you, touch everything else but your dick for hours until you’re so pent up, you’re begging for release… I could finger you-,”
“Yes-,” Sherlock gave a loud whine, “Please John, I need… something inside…”
John paused for a moment, they haven’t got any lube to his knowledge, “Sherlock, I need some… do you have anything to lubricate with?”
Sherlock reached over into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small bottle of lube. Handing it to John. He took a moment to wonder what on earth Sherlock was doing with an unopened bottle of lube in his pocket, but was swiftly swept back into action. John coated one hand and warmed the liquid with his fingers, then slowly, reaching up to capture Sherlock’s lips again, he pushed the first finger in. Sherlock flinched slightly with discomfort, but as John continued to kiss him and pump his fingers steadily, the discomfort ebbed and soon Sherlock was writhing mess underneath John.
Sherlock let out a strangled whine, head thrown back as John went back to his previous actions, stroking Sherlock’s cock and nipping bruises into his neck.
“John… John!” Sherlock let out a garbled string of expletives as John added a second finger, shortly after, a third finger soon followed, “Oh… Oh- Oh, right there- r-right! Yes, John, right there!”
John grinned at the sounds falling from Sherlock’s mouth and swallowed any more noises with his own lips. It wouldn’t do to have someone interrupt them now. Heat coiled in Sherlock’s abdomen as John curled and twisted his fingers inside Sherlock, drawing sound after muffled sound from his lips, face a picture of bliss. Fat droplets of pre-cum formed on the tip of Sherlock’s cock and John captured them with his thumb, pulling back from the kiss to lick the cum into his mouth.
John began to piston his fingers into Sherlock’s hole, scissoring them as he aimed for his prostate. Soon enough he hit the spot, and-
“Oh, good Lord, John, fff-,” Sherlock’s jaw dropped in a silent scream, “O- Oh, fuck! Mmmy god! John- fuck, fuck me oh god, I need you to-,”
Suddenly, Sherlock was coming in thick ribbons onto his stomach and chest, flopping backwards, sprawling across their blanket. John straddled Sherlock and started to kiss and lick at the cum on Sherlock’s chest, earning himself another, slightly pained groan from Sherlock.
“Too much…” Sherlock breathed, head lolling to the side as John slid off him and flopped down next to his best friend.
“... Wow …” He said, turning his head to stare at Sherlock, “I mean… Wow. Please Tell me this wasn’t a one-off?”
“Oh no, I thoroughly intend to do everything I can to make you make more of those delicious sounds.” Sherlock mumbled, throwing an arm over John’s chest and curling into him. He wrinkled his nose at the drying mess and, without a second thought he picked up John’s already ruined shirt, and used it to wipe away the mess.
For the rest of the afternoon, they basked in their post-coital bliss. Curled up together on their blanket, they mellowed in the warmth of the sun's late glow, kissing occasionally, reveling in the fuzzy feeling in their chests.
When John woke, the sun was setting and a rosy hue had settled over their clearing. He lay with Sherlock draped over his chest, sleeping soundly, both curled up underneath the shade of the large ash tree. John took a moment to watch and listen to the bustling wildlife, small critters, like hares and squirrels, scurried around the underbrush, blue birds sang sweetly above the treeline, and ducks waddled along the edge of the creek, guiding their ducklings toward the lake. He’d always loved the hustle and bustle of inner-city London, how you could hear ambulances, parties, people anywhere and everywhere, no matter the time of day or night. When mum had told them they were moving to Wiltshire, John had thought the country would be boring - somewhere old people went to slowly retire - but really, it was just as exciting. Of course, he’d had Sherlock’s craziness to balance out his own thirst for adventure, but the wildlife itself was always at work, always avoiding danger. From the small fowl avoiding the fox, to the deer running from hunters when in season, something dangerous was always afoot.
“Shhhhh.” Sherlock grumbled groggily, shifting to bury his face deeper into John’s neck.
John gave him a bewildered look, yet somehow continued to smile fondly at him, “I didn’t say anything.”
“Hmmmm.” Sherlock opened his eyes to glare unconvincingly at John, “You were thinking. It’s annoying.”
John gave a snort of laughter and carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, “Sorry, didn’t mean to think so loud and wake you.” Sherlock grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, ‘s’okay, because you’re pretty’ and immediately fell back asleep. Or at least, he tried to.
“Come on, Sherlock, it’s…” He glanced at his watch, “Oh, shit! It’s 6:45, mum said dinner was at 6:30- Sherlock come on! Get up! We’re late!”
“Wassapanin?” Sherlock shot up at the alarm in John’s tone, “Who’s dying?”
“Us! If we don’t get back to my house-,” He checked his watch again, eyes widening in panic, “17 minutes ago!”
“What?” Sherlock yawned, blinked blankly and sat up.
God, was he adorable, so sleep addled, John mused, barely able to keep the dopey grin from his face.
Sherlock was wearing nothing but a precariously placed blanket and was still very much half asleep, so it was as much as a surprise to both of them when a loud girlish scream, accompanied by words, erupted from the tree line.
“John, Sherlock are you out here? Mycroft said- Oh God! My eyes! My poor innocent eyes!” Harry stood by the edge of their clearing, covering her face as she simultaneously screamed and gagged, “Why me!?” She wailed.
“Oh, calm down Harry! Just give us a minute, alright!?” John turned to pull his trousers on over his pants and realised with a forlorn look at his shirt, that it had been completely ripped in two… and covered in stains. He sent Sherlock a vicious look.
Sherlock, who was still sat stationary with his blanket, was startled back to the life of the living as his own trousers, pants and shirt were thrown in quick succession at him, “Get dressed, you great oaf!” John hissed, scrambling around the clearing to gather the socks and shoes they’d thrown aside to play pirates in the water earlier.
When John turned back around, Sherlock had collected himself, and was mostly dressed, left only to button his shirt back up. John found himself gazing at Sherlock, eyes wondering over the slowly disappearing skin, following the line of red and purple marks dotted up his chest and collar bone. Thankfully, as Sherlock finished the last few buttons on his shirt, none of the marks were visible. He looked up, realising he’d been staring long enough to be noticed, and glanced away bashfully when he saw that Sherlock had caught him staring.
“God, John! Take a picture, it’ll last longer!” Harry suddenly piped up, reminding both boys, that yes, she was still there, “And you might want to put a shirt on sometime soon, mum isn’t going to miss those, you know.”
John turned to frown at her, “Miss what…?”
Sherlock coughed awkwardly and tapped his own neck, “I might’ve… gone a bit… uh-,”
“Overboard?” Harry snorted, “What are you? A vampire?”
“Alright, Harry, that’s enough!” John was panicking now.
If mum saw she’d know, there would be no way she’d think John was off with some girl from the village - he didn’t have any time to do anything like that, what with spending every waking minute with Sherlock. Besides they hadn’t even really talked yet, it wasn’t a one time thing, but was it just a summer thing? Was it a relationship thing? Or a friends-with-benefits thing? Mum didn’t even know he was bisexual yet! This wasn’t how he wanted to come out to her!
Oh God, he found himself crouching down on the ground, breathing heavily, mind whirring a mile a minute.
Oh God, he thought, ohgodohgodohgodohgod- I’m not ready, she’ll hate me! Shellhatemeshellhateme- she won’t understand. We’re late and she won’t understand- she won’t, she won’t, shewontshewont-
“John, look at me.” John shook his head, he couldn’t, everything was too much, why was everything too much? He felt a hand touch his cheek, and at first, he flinched away from it, but the hand stayed steady, it felt warm, and slowly he let himself be brought back.
“John, it’s me, it’s Sherlock. You’re having an anxiety attack. It’s okay, just take breaths with me, alright? In: one, two, three, out: one-,”
“Not helping!” John found himself gasping, still hyperventilating, there was wetness on his cheeks, his heart was beating sporadically. His hands were desperately clutching his hair, but he couldn’t seem to let go. He was aware of what was happening, but wasn’t in control of himself.
“-alright, alright. Listen to me. It’s okay. You’re alright, you’re in our place, it’s me and you and your sister and it’s alright John. Come back to me.” The sound of Sherlock’s voice, a calm and cool baritone lulled his subconscious into security, and almost as soon as his panicking had begun, it subsided. Sweat dripped down John’s neck and he realised he’d been gripping onto his own hair so tightly, he’d pulled some out. Slowly he let his body relax, and with an unsteady breath he turned back to focus on Sherlock.
“Hello.” Sherlock whispered, “You’ve come back.”
It took John a moment to register that the reason his laugh sounded so wet, was because tears were still streaming steadily down his cheeks, “Hey.” He replied, taking a few long breaths, “Sorry, haven’t had one since… in a… in a while.”
The unspoken ‘since dad died’ hung heavily in the air around the three of them.
“Do not apologise, John.” Sherlock said softly, yet sternly, “You’ve nothing to apologise for.”
“No-no, I know.” John sighed and wiped almost aggressively at his face, “I just spiralled for a minute… I can’t - my shirt… and mum finding out-,”
“Alright, it’s alright, don’t work yourself up again. Let’s just… Harry, what time is it?”
“Uh…” She squinted at the tiny pink watch on her wrist, “Oh, five past…”
“Right, that’s okay.” Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, “Right, when your mum sent you out to get us, had they eaten yet?”
“No.” Harry shook her head, “She said we’d wait.”
“Okay, it’s only been half an hour. Harry, you like to run, don’t you? I can tell you ran all the way here. Run back. Say you really needed the toilet, so you came back to let everyone know we were on our way, then, go up to John’s room, get him a shirt, any other red shirt and throw it out the window into the potted plant in the back garden. Clear?”
Harry grinned, she felt like a special operative in some secret spy mission, “Crystal, boss!” Then she was turning tail and running back up the path to the house.
Next Sherlock turned to John, “I’ve bought us a few minutes, come on, over here to the creek. Splash your face, it’ll help.”
John did as he was told, and despite the fact it made little-to-no difference, he did feel a lot better. Sherlock grabbed the rags of his shirt and passed it over as a towel.
“Sorry.” Sherlock muttered quietly, “I didn’t think before…”
“Sherlock.” John scowled at him, “Neither of us could’ve known, we forgot… we were having fun. Don’t you ever apologise for that, you were magnificent, wonderful. You made me feel so special. My anxiety isn’t anyone’s fault. It’s irrational and there’s no one to blame for it. Come on, I’m feeling much better now, you did good, Sherlock.”
Sherlock grinned, “Bit very good?”
John grinned back, “A lot very good.” They linked hands absently, and began the walk back. It took them exactly 7 minutes and 48 seconds to reach the window at the back of the Watsons’ home, and there lay a red collared polo shirt, much like the one John had been wearing earlier. He slipped the shirt on and checked in the reflection of the kitchen window that nothing could be seen - thankfully everyone was in the living room at the moment. So, daringly, he turned back to Sherlock and took his hand.
“Right, ‘spose we should apologise for being late.” John said.
Sherlocked nodded, “We should probably come up with an excuse.”
John shrugged, moving his hands up to smooth out the wrinkles in Sherlock’s shirt, “We lost track of time.” Then he pulled Sherlock in by the lapel and kissed him square on the lips. They kissed for a moment, then John pulled back, “Sorry, was that alright?”
Sherlock smiled adoringly at John, “Perfect.”
After an awkward tale of a made up case, involving a strange spike in the burglary of ornate Santa figurines, and falling asleep by the creek, backed up by way-too-enthusiastic shouts from Harry, eventually they all sat down to eat. John and Sherlock may have been holding hands under the table, but whose business was it but theirs?
“What were you thinking about? The other afternoon?” Sherlock asked, pulling back from John and hovering over him. They were sprawled out on Sherlock’s bed, John had been reading aloud some stories about white knights and round tables, which hadn’t interested Sherlock at all. The only reason he’d kept quiet until now was for the continuation of John’s soft voice echoing the literature and painting a beautiful picture with his passion.
“Hmm? Oh, just… how much I like it here. Didn’t think I would, thought it’d be too quiet and… peaceful, but it’s not really is it?”
Sherlock gave a wicked grin, “No, but London’s better - more crimes, more excitement!”
John raised an amused eyebrow and let out a laugh, “It should scare me how gleeful crime makes you, but I can’t help but think how adorable you look.”
Sherlock scowled, “I’m not adorable. You are adorable, I am stoic perfection.”
John snorted, and without hesitation leant up to smother Sherlock with kisses until his face was pink and a dopey grin crossed his features. He scrambled over the side of the bed to his backpack, and before Sherlock could register what he was doing, he was snapping a picture with his brand-new Polaroid camera. The picture came out and John held it steadily from Sherlock’s reach until it had developed.
“What on earth did you do that for?” Sherlock groused, sniffing indifferently, but allowing John to nuzzle his way back into his arms.
“Proof.” He stated with a grin, “And memories.”
John nodded and held up the mostly developed photo. Sherlock was strewn across the sheets, eyes staring lazily at the camera through a curtain of mussed curls, a brilliant flush painted his cheeks. Sherlock glowered at him, “I hate it, get rid of it.”
John laughed heartily and leaned forward to pepper even more kisses over Sherlock’s face, until he was grinning reluctantly and shoving John away, “Get off, you horrible man, I’m trying to be angry. I’m angry at the moment. You don’t deserve kisses, go away!”
“Nope!” John grinned, moving closer to trail little pecks up Sherlock’s jaw, “I love this, you look so peaceful, so… calm, sexy, even.” He drew back, punctuating every compliment with a kiss, creeping closer and closer to Sherlock’s lips, “Cute-,”
Sherlock jerked away, “I am not cute!”
“Yes, you are.” John said in a sing-song voice, grabbing onto the headboard either side of Sherlock, essentially trapping him. Sherlock looked petulantly up at him, hair in a dishevelled disarray, and eyes a stormy blue.
“No. I. Am. Not.” He growled.
“Yes you are! You are! You are! You are!” John captured Sherlock’s lips with his own, grinning to himself as he felt he pout melt from his lips. He deepened the kiss, drawing weak sighs from Sherlock’s throat, and suddenly pulled away, “You are a magnificent, wonderful, amazing, beautiful, peaceful, calm, adorable man.”
“That was too many adjectives, John.” Sherlock mumbled, eyes downcast and cheeks renewed with a magnificent ruddy red.
John nuzzled into Sherlock’s neck, whispering sweetly into his skin, “There are never too many adjectives to describe you, Sherlock Holmes. Extraordinary.”
“Was that an example or were you simply adding to the list?”
They lazed like that for hours, bantering, kissing and occasionally getting more passionate. As their kisses grew into something much more demanding, of course, they were interrupted.
Sherlock’s hands were scraping gently down John’s back as they kissed feverishly, mouths melding together and hands wondering; just as John paused to trail kisses down Sherlock’s throat, there was a knock at the door.
Sherlock and John barely had a moment to scramble apart and fix their clothing before the door was being pushed open and Mycroft stood accompanied by another man Sherlock didn’t recognise. Mycroft gave them a glance and his lips twitched in amusement.
“I do hope you two aren’t too preoccupied for lunch?” He raised an eyebrow, earning a sneer from his younger brother, “Mother wants us all down in five minutes, if you wouldn’t mind… freshening up and coming down, I’m sure that would be appreciated.”
Sherlock grumbled and rolled off the bed, wandering to his draws to pick out socks and underwear, only to brush past the doorway haughtily a moment later, “Oh, don’t bother introducing us, Mycroft, I’m sure we can all communicate telepathically.”
Mycroft sighed as John shuffled to stand, glad that any hints of arousal were scared off as soon as Sherlock’s brother had entered the room. The elder Holmes placed a hand on his companion’s back to steady him, “This is my friend, Gregory Lestrade.”
Greg was a tall, handsome man with sandy brown hair and a brilliantly awkward smile, “Hello, uh, you must be Sherlock, it’s great to meet you-,”
“Wrong.” Sherlock blurted, rolling his eyes dramatically at his brother, yanking a shirt and trousers from his wardrobe, “You don’t have friends.”
Mycroft sent him a blank look, “Neither did you two months ago, now well… you’ve got more than just a friend.”
Sherlock shot him a vicious look and ducked into a door by the side of the room. Directly next to Sherlock’s room was a bathroom with a luxurious shower, toilet and sink unit, on the other side of the room, was his brother’s bedroom - thank the Lord both doors locked from the inside. Sherlock shut the door harshly and John sent Mycroft an apologetic look.
“Um, we won’t be a minute.” He assured. Once Mycroft and Greg were gone, John turned to see Sherlock emerging from the bathroom, hair combed and wearing a fresh change of clothing.
John came up to Sherlock and wrapped his arms around him, “Be nice, downstairs, yeah? I think Greg is more of a boyfriend than just a friend.”
Sherlock gave John an unimpressed look, “Obviously.” He said with disgust, “One could tell just by the glancing at-,”
“Sherlock if you start deducing right now, I will be forced to take you straight back to that bed and have my way with you - now kindly shut up and let’s go. ”
For a moment Sherlock was frozen, eyes glazed over and lips left in a crooked grin, then he was straightening, turning and sashaying out the door, turning only to throw a sultry look over his shoulder. John swallowed thickly and almost didn’t realise Sherlock had begun to speak, “If we carry on just standing here flirting we’re simply wasting precious time thinking about things we could be doing. And the more time that is wasted thinking, the longer until we can do something about it.”
John watched as Sherlock swept out the door, tousled curls bouncing as he flashed him a simply predatory grin. He shook his head, God, he couldn’t imagine a future without this brilliant and utterly baffling man. They made it through the rest of the day, and soon enough John was getting ready to head home. They were alone in the hallway, barely out of sight of Sherlock’s family and Harry who were saying goodbyes outside. He grabbed Sherlock by the shirt collar and planted a firm kiss on his lips. They heard Harry bark out laughter and the Holmes parents exchanging pleasantries. Sherlock was more than convinced by the look his mother gave him, warm and ever so slightly reprimanding, that they had most definitely been caught in the act. But frankly, he couldn’t care less.
John was his and he was John’s. Perhaps they hadn’t yet discussed their relationship, maybe they were still in a transitioning stage from friends to more-than. But Sherlock’s mind was made up.
He would throw himself, wholeheartedly at John Watson.
He would allow himself that one weakness; from now on, he would do anything to keep John happy and smiling by his side.