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The Five Times Sherlock Kissed John and the One Time John Kissed Sherlock

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Sherlock was crapping on about egg-cups and everyone in the vicinity felt stupid. A normal Thursday morning, John decided. Anderson was being insufferable, wandering around with coffee and a smirk. He and Donavan weren't on speaking terms anymore, which was sad, because it was easier to hate them as a unit than as two separate people – so much extra effort.

The scene was particularly gory. The body had been stripped of flesh and body organs, it was literally a carcass, and John had felt useless when he couldn't even calculate how long it had been dead for.

"I've seen this in a show before." He'd said, because he had.

"What did it?" Sherlock had asked, not really caring about the answer.

"Aliens," John admitted, because it couldn't be that.

"Can't be that, then." Lestrade pointed out.

Sherlock and John both turned round, and looked at him like he was stupid. This was when John saw it.

"Sherlock, that coat on the floor looks like that one in that photo."

Sherlock inspected, jumped up, put his hands on either side of John's face and kissed him square on the mouth before jumping and spinning around singing out 'You solved it, John, you've solved it!'

John was too occupied by looking like he wasn't occupied by the kiss to realise that those hands had just been on a fleshless corpse not three seconds before they'd touched his face. Anderson had snorted his hot coffee through his nose and was now spluttering, bent in half. Sherlock took the time to look at Anderson like he was something on the bottom of his shoe – no, with more dislike. Sherlock often found things useful for experiments on the bottoms of his shoes. Only in London… - and then he was off, and John was chasing after him.



The CCTV camera spun around. It caught Sherlock's eye, John was oblivious – as always. The man was strangely interesting but that didn't excuse him from being as retarded as the rest of the tedious dullards.

He didn't turn his head, John had been hyper aware of him since the kiss at the crime scene. It hadn't meant anything, really, other than the fact that Sherlock had to be slightly more discreet about things he didn't want John noticing.

Like the amount of patches he was wearing, or the fact that he hadn't eaten for a week and that roast steak looked slightly tempting, or the fact that his brother was an obnoxious sleaze ball who was intent on catching Sherlock having nookie with his flatmate.

A plan was forming in Sherlock's brain, but he refused to let it surface. He'd known John for over six months and kissed him once already, but that didn't mean the man would be up for it.

They continued strolling down the busy street. Sherlock quite liked London; it was certainly his favourite place to be. And he liked it even more with John.

"Mycroft is watching us."

John glanced around, feeling very awkward.

"What for now?" He asked, wearily.

"If you promise not to run away because I have such a creep for a brother, I'll tell you. I need a colleague."

John nodded.

"He's trying to catch you and me having sex."

John gaped.

"I've just spent the last… ooooooh… sixty seconds trying to deduce whether or not you're man enough to kiss me just to throw him off."

John gaped even more.

"I failed."

John grinned. Damn it, Sherlock thought, I hate it when he's smug. He always looks like such an idiot in the end. Like with that fat woman and the cats.

"Until you did that."

And Sherlock kissed him, holding the back of his head and only slightly moving against his lips.

Then he flipped off the CCTV camera and went about his day.



It was a Saturday night. It was also the night of John's birthday, but he'd forgotten that between the times Sherlock had dragged him away from his own party and now, both of them sitting watching city from a very high sky scraper.

"I'm sorry, John."

John turned his head to look at Sherlock. "What for?"

"It's your birthday today, and I didn't even acknowledge it because I was too busy running after a man who didn't actually kill any pimps, just woke up and felt like being furtive today."

John looked around him. The city was beautiful, sparkling with life.

"That's okay, Sherlock. I got some exercise – enough for an endorphin rush, and now I've got the best view of a city I love. This birthday has been fine."

Sherlock pulled John's head towards him and kissed him on the side, just above the ear. Then he pulled John's head to his chest briefly as a hug, and John didn't find it odd, or weird or unnerving in any way, because they were friends and that's what friends did, showed affection.

He'd never done it with his other friends before; the thought off kissing them mortified him. But he'd never had a friend quite like Sherlock, never had a friend as close as Sherlock.

He maybe even loved Sherlock, maybe not as a boyfriend, but at least the same way he loved Harry, or his mother. And who knows, maybe one day he would see Sherlock like that – sexually. But that was a thought for another night.

As John lay back and looked at the stars, which looked much closer up here – but that was probably just his imagination, he decided it hadn't been a bad birthday at all



It was raining. In fact, raining was an understatement. It was absolutely pouring, he was soaked through. The umbrella Sherlock was holding over them both was doing nothing. His suit was dripping of his, his hair stuck to his head. In fact, the only good thing about the rain was that no one could really tell that he was crying.

God, he sounded like a teenage girl, but rain was a bloody useful thing at a funeral.

The crowd had dissipated fairly quickly after the service; there was food and drinks at Clara's house. But John just couldn't face his sister's friends, apologising for his loss. At least Sherlock was quiet.

When John had first told Sherlock about Harry he had been working on an experiment. John was surprised when Sherlock even answered.

"Would you like me to come to the funeral?"

John supposed he did, and boy was he glad. He'd needed that support. No one had come near him. Sherlock was creepy at best, but he had assumed a look of terror for the day, for which John was grateful.

"Are you okay, John?"

Sherlock was soaked too, but he didn't seem to mind the weather, as though he was beyond it.

John didn't trust himself to speak, so he nodded.

"Do you want to go soon?"

He nodded again, but Sherlock was obviously worried, because he felt a hand on his chin, directing his face upwards.

He felt warm lips on his head forehead, and then eyes were searching his.

Another kiss, on the cheek.

"I'll go hail a taxi," Sherlock left him to stare one more time at the flowers from those who loved Harry so much.

John wiped his eyes.

"C'mon, John!"



Oh god, he could feel it. It filled his lungs like some kind of happy gas… like light, yes, light. He had been in the dark and now it was light. And he could feel warmth around him, hugging him, like an electric blanket. Mmmm, it felt so good he could almost taste it…

Yes, he could taste warmth.

Where was the warmth coming from? He must thank it, shake its hand, and marry it, if it makes it happy. Because the warmth made him happy, like the light.

He was going to have to become a polygamist, with all these things he wanted to marry.

But where was the warmth coming from. It must have a source, a form of energy behind it. That was a logical thought.

But never mind, because the light was coming in big bursts now. It filled his lungs and he took deep breaths, but that hurt a bit so he took shallower ones. Life was too short for things that hurt.

But now the warmth he could taste was gone.

He could still feel it around him, but once he'd inhaled the light, the warmth had gone from his lips. But where had the warmth gone? And where had it come from, anyway?

God, this would all be so much easier if he could see.

So he opened his eyes, waited for them to focus, and there was Sherlock above him, so close that John could only focus on his eyes.

"John!" Sherlock breathed, and kissed him on the mouth, and John was so happy.

He was so happy that he didn't mind when it went black again, because that black wasn't a bad sort of black, it was a temporary one, and he would feel better after it, he knew.

And when John was sat up in the hospital bed watching his best friend animatedly chatter nonsense about what he'd done to Mrs Hudson's stovetop, John realised that the warmth, and the light for at least a small amount of time, had been Sherlock.

And Sherlock made John happy, and John would thank him, and shake his hand, and marry him, it if made him happy.

And perhaps if he took breaths too big, Sherlock might hurt him, like the oxygen had, but he could always take shallower ones.

Because life was too short for things that hurt.


Sherlock was making John cup noodles. Under John's guidance, of course, because Sherlock can't actually make cup noodles. Sure, the instructions were simple and Sherlock could follow them, they weren't the problem. What Sherlock did have a problem with was his habit straying away from instructions to improve something.

So John had had many cup noodles the last few weeks that had things ranged from turkey's abdomen to banana to gravel added to it, and that just wouldn't do.

So he was sitting on the couch giving Sherlock step-by-step instructions.

"Now we pick up the foam cup and bring it over to me – carefully."

And as Sherlock handed John the cup noodles he couldn't keep the small amount of pride at the fact that he had made a meal that John would actually enjoy out of his eyes.

John put down the cup noodles on a coffee table and caught the back of Sherlock's neck before he pulled away.

"Thank you," John whispered, and pressed his lips to Sherlock, who stood slightly shocked for about half a second before pressing into the kiss, slowly collapsing next to John on the couch.

John pressed his tongue to Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock opened his mouth and he tasted like mints and saliva and tongue and tobacco and Sherlock, and it was wonderful.

When John pulled away, he gazed into his eyes.

"You've looked after me so well the last few weeks."

"I did get you nearly killed." Sherlock admitted.

"Yes, but then you saved me, so I think that one cancels itself out."

Sherlock nodded, as though he thought that was fair.

"So what would you like as a thank you present?"
Sherlock looked surprised.

"Your gratitude is enough. And the promise that you'll stay around and not run off to a boring life as soon as you can physically run again."

It was John's turn to be surprised. Sherlock had said that with pure concern and a hint of bitterness.

"Of course I won't, Sherlock! I like it here, you're my best friend."

Sherlock smiled and kissed John on the head, and went to stand up. He wasn't good at emotions. But John stopped him and he sat down again, defeated.

"John, there are very few things that I can't get myself, and they're things I probably could if I wanted them bad enough."

"Okay then, what are they?"

"On demand cases, a criminal who gives me a challenge, this certain type of woollen jumper my grandmother used to make, sex, a violin fit to my dimensions perfectly, and to convert the kitchen into a lab."

John looked at Sherlock, and sighed.

"Lestrade, Moriarty, talk to your mother, a violin maker, and you already have!"

"You missed one."

"That's the one I could give you, if you wanted…'

"Huh," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "Well, once you're better, I suppose we could give it a try. Like an experiment."

Sherlock and his bloody experiments.

"Well, why don't I give you a preview now?"

Sherlock considered it.

"It seems logistically impossible for us to fornicate while you're weak and injured."

"Fornicate my mouth, instead."

This seemed to hit a chord, much like 'I want to fuck you til you don't know where you are anymore,' tended to hit a chord with the rest of the world. He stood up in front of John, looking down.

"Oh-… okay,"

"Wonderful," John said and proceeded to unbutton Sherlock's pants, which slid down those thin hips, to the floor. He could see the beginnings of an erection underneath Sherlock's underwear, so he pulled them off, too.

To Sherlock's credit, he didn't seem to mind being exposed. Although, why would you when you looked like that? He began to run his fingers through John's hair, which had gotten long in all the months that he'd lived at 221B, but he had no intention of cutting it.

Especially if this was going to be a common occurrence. John ran his hands down the penis in front of his eyes, and then lifted it up and ran a tongue over the slit.

Sherlock made a noise that was halfway between a cough and a grunt and John flicked his eyes up to see Sherlock's gazed locked on what John was doing with his hands.

John took the head into his mouth and simultaneously sucked and swirled his tongue around, moving back to survey the now fully hard cock and spread the pearly liquid dribbling from the top.

"You're leaking."

Sherlock laughed, and as John dipped his head and took in the whole shaft it progressed to a surprised giggle which John had to avoid snorting at.

Now, John had given blow jobs before, and there was a certain technique to it.

Sherlock was sweating and trying not to thrust in John's mouth by the time John decided to employ it. He pushed Sherlock so Sherlock couldn't help but thrust, and swallowed just at the right time, and then pulled back in time to not gag.

And the sound of Sherlock echoed gloriously through the flat.

Sherlock thrust again and John dutifully swallowed, Sherlock pulled back in time, and they established a rhythm that had Sherlock whining and whimpering within minutes.

"J-John, I'm going to c-Ohhh, John I'm gonna come."

John ran his fingers up the insides of Sherlock's legs and pressed against his perineum. Sherlock howled, and John felt salty heat spurt into his mouth, he swallowed a few times, coaxing all of the semen out, and then tried to catch Sherlock as he collapsed to the floor.


He was unsuccessful. But John didn't really think Sherlock minded, he was slightly rolling around groaning lightly.

"Good God John, you are good at that." He rasped, breathing deeply.

"Thanks, Sherlock."

John pulled Sherlock up next to him again. Sherlock looked at him uncomfortably.

"What's wrong?"

"Well things change now, do they not? You want me to be all gooey-eyed lovey-dovey and make stupid announcements of my love for you every day and all that. And you expect me to be considerate and listen to you and not get as obsessed with crime and completely change. That's what happens now."

John was taken aback. Sherlock really had had some bad experiences with relationships.

"Not really. I mean, sometimes is fine, but if you turn into a complete sap, I'm leaving you. If I wanted you to do that, I'd be dating a woman."

Sherlock took nearly a minute to comprehend this, and another one to try and figure out what to say to it. John waited patiently and politely, looking at a jar full of pickled eyes with guarded interest.

"Have I told you that I love you?"

John smiled.

"No, but you can if you want."

Sherlock stood up and walked into his room, and John couldn't help feeling a little put out. Oh well, never mind that, he thought, and limped into the kitchen. He bent over and opened the fridge, shut it, and opened it again.


Sherlock came running in, trying to not grin.

"I'm sorry!" He said weakly, holding back a giggle.

John glared huffily at him.

"I love you?"

A smile spread on John's face, but he still had Molly remove the head the next day.