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John loved Sherlock.
John had known it since Sherlock threw himself off the roof of St. Bart’s. Since John screamed Sherlock’s name at the top of his lungs. Since he had checked for his pulse and got nothing. Since his tears had fallen on the pavement. Since he had to see his name on the gravestone. Since he had to bury him and go home to an empty flat. Since he had believed he would never see him again. John had known from the deepest part of him that he truly loved and cherished Sherlock.
No, that wasn’t true, it had been earlier.
The night John was handcuffed to Sherlock and he pointed a gun at his head. He had at least realized he loved him that very night. Sherlock had said something to annoy him, he called him a dick and almost in that same sentence had blurted it all out. But John held his tongue and Greg came to arrest him. John punched an officer to get himself arrested as well, to follow Sherlock. They ran down alleyways, hand in hand. He would gladly agree to chase after him forever if it meant always losing his breath at how beautiful the curls of his hair bounced as he ran.
And that’s why John was so willing to forgive him. It was two years that he thought he was dead. He had mourned him. The only love he ever had and he had died right in front of his eyes. It was a miracle when Sherlock had resurfaced. He was like an angel to him.
They fell back into rhythm almost immediately. It was as if he never left. He forgot how thrilling it was to solve crimes with him. He forgot how nice it was to come home to him every evening. He forgot how fun it was for Mrs. Hudson to tease that they were a couple.
It used to grind John for people to mistake them for anything more than colleagues, or flatmates, or friends. He was in such denial before. When Sherlock had saved him at the pool where Moriarty strapped a bomb to his chest, he had been so sexy. He wanted him right there. When his phone would go off with notifications of text messages from Adler, he flew into a jealous rage. John was the only one who never saw it. Everyone saw it.
After Sherlock’s return, John would get giddy when someone confused them for a couple. John would still verbally deny it, for Sherlock’s sake, but he grew softer about it.
That worried him. Sherlock was sure to deduce it. He didn’t want him to know. He was so out of his league and John knew Sherlock didn’t feel the same. How could he?
He was different. The first time he met him and asked about a boyfriend, he said he didn’t do that. John understood completely. Sherlock doesn’t date. He doesn’t do domestic. He doesn’t fall in love. There probably wasn’t even a person alive who could even be worthy of him; his intelligence, his brilliance, his beauty.
Sherlock was amazing like that. John was in deep. He fell for him harder than any fall from a building. And John was nowhere near the running to be more than friends with Sherlock Holmes.
That was until he came home one morning and demanded a kiss.
Sherlock was delusional from exhaustion, John had decided. He had been out all night on a case, solved it and the adrenaline rush moved him to do something rash.
It was probably all for an experiment anyway. John was miffed at that. Sherlock was always doing that, playing with people’s emotions for a test. He never thought anything of it because he felt emotions were weak and a hindrance.
And the world’s greatest (only!) consulting detective knew John was head over heels for him. It was very obvious.
“Kiss me!” Sherlock sang as he burst into the room, removing his big coat and tossing it onto the rack.
“What?” John screeched. He put down his newspaper and coffee as Sherlock glided from the doorframe and sat next to him.
“We should kiss!” he replied breathlessly. He was leaning close to him. It was his mistake for taking breakfast on the sofa instead of the dining table. Sherlock was right beside him, their knees touched as he scooted over to John.
“Sherlock,” he protested, “That’s not…”
“Oh, you’re right. I should be asking for consent. I apologize.” His thigh was still against his. His voice sounded like it was behind glass. John wasn’t thinking straight anymore. He felt like he was a million miles away even though he could feel the heat radiating from the man sitting next to him.
“John,” he sighed. His eyes were soft but determined. “Can we kiss?”
It was like a dream. Of course he was dreaming. That was the only explanation.
This is your only chance, Watson , he told himself. There was no other way this perfect man was going to ever again kiss him. He should do it. He must. He was begging him!
John pecked him on the cheek.
“You’ve had loads of girlfriends, John, I know you can give a proper snog.”
His body went pale, a lump caught in his throat, and his cock twitched.
“What’s this about, Sherlock?”
“Don’t you want to kiss me?”
“You know I do.”
“So let’s. Please.”
It was chaste at first. John placed his lips softly to Sherlock’s, nervously. He had imagined it many times in daydreams and in his mind it was always steamy and rushed. It was difficult to bring that to real life.
Sherlock deepened the kiss and reclined his body against John’s. John put a hand on Sherlock’s cheek and matched his growing intensity.
God, this is lovely, he thought.
He was surprised he really liked it. Sherlock had his pick of anyone out there, he didn’t have to kiss John. He was short, he had average looks and average intelligence. Sure, he was a doctor, but it didn’t mean much compared to Sherlock. He was tall, fit, and a genius. He might fair against a regular bloke but not to someone who truly deserved him. So it was really lucky that he was taking to kissing him so enthusiastically. But perhaps it was all about the experiment.
Sherlock was the one to separate first, just before John grew the confidence to introduce tongues. He looked at John and smiled. Then, as if it didn’t happen, helped himself to his toast and rambled on for thirty minutes about the case he had just cracked.
John watched him with amazement and replayed the kiss in his head. It was perfect and everything he had dreamed of. It was just a shame that it meant nothing to Sherlock. He ruminated on it for days and it threw him even further into attraction with him. He was lost now. That had sealed his love for him. If only he could ever reciprocate. John knew he wouldn’t even get another situation like it.
He was very wrong. Because a week and half later it happened again.
“John, aren’t you listening to me?” Sherlock snapped at him.
He shook from his thoughts, once again reminiscing over the kiss with Sherlock just a week prior. He looked up at him from his position in his chair. He was towered over him, staring at him with bewilderment.
“I’m sorry,” John whispered. “I didn’t hear you.”
Sherlock sighed and narrowed her eyes. “I asked if you wanted to accompany me to the music store. I need more rosin for my bow.”
“Er, yeah. I could go for the walk.”
“You’re not ill,” he said matter-of-factly. “When you’re ill you get sweaty and pale.“
“I didn’t say I was.”
“You were ignoring me. You only do that when I’m talking about my laboratory findings or when you’re feverish.”
“Oh,” John said, realizing he was trying to read him. “No, Sherlock, I’m just distracted.”
“You need a kiss,” he said with a sly grin.
John dropped his eyes away from him quickly. He felt his cheeks burn.
“It’ll relax you,” Sherlock continued. And without prompt or warning, he lowered him back down into his chair and planted himself on John’s lap.
Instinctively John grabbed Sherlock at the hips but then recoiled. He wouldn’t want him touching him in that way. It was too intimate. But then, Sherlock grabbed John’s hands and placed them back to where they had been.
“You can hold me,” he reassured him. His green eyes found John’s blue and smiled.
Their mouths crashed into each other. Sherlock pressed his lips into John’s as his arms squeezed around him and held him close. He tasted like earl grey and smelled like limoncello; his citrusy Sherlock.
John slid his hands down Sherlock’s back slowly. He moaned. His tongue was in his mouth. Sherlock ground his hips against him. It was his turn to moan.
They came up for air and Sherlock whispered, “John…”
John’s lips found Sherlock’s neck and he kissed and licked across his clavicle. His right hand moved to his bottom and squeezed.
Sherlock moaned.
John sobered up.
“We can’t do this,” John started, unsure what else to say.
He looked at his face, Sherlock was disheveled and pink. If he hadn’t stopped, how far would they have gone? Sherlock seemed to be very into what they were doing but John had doubts. He loved Sherlock but knew Sherlock most definitely did not love him. Shagging him would not ensure a romantic relationship, just complicate the platonic one they already had.
Sherlock blinked and stood up.
“The music store!” he cried. “Thank you for remembering, John.”
That’s not what I meant, he thought.
He adjusted his pants and trousers and stood up as Sherlock grabbed his coat. John escorted him down the street as he rambled on about some experiments he had been working on. John silently watched Sherlock scrutinize violin accessories in the store. He lent him the money when it turned out he left his wallet at home.
John followed Sherlock home silently. He excused himself to his room when they got in the front door. He fell into bed once his feet hit the landing not even bothering to undress.
“Goodnight!” Sherlock called to him, unconcerned.
John was in it now. They had kissed twice. Two miraculous, passionate times. He thought back on the events and grew hot. He wanted more.
Two amazing snogging sessions and Sherlock had initiated both.
He didn’t even have to guess what it meant. Sherlock was unpredictable but John knew it was for some data he was collecting. John wondered if he was even the only person he had kissed like that in recent times. The idea of Sherlock kissing men all over town drove him mental.
He struggled to find sleep. And just a few days later, Sherlock would cause another sleepless night.
He had approached John on the sofa again. He was napping in Sherlock’s usual nap spot, or at least trying to. The taller man stood over him and he wondered if it was his way of asking him to move.
“You don’t own this sofa, Sherlock,” John murmured with his eyes still closed. “I can lie here if I want to.”
“I actually do own the sofa, I brought it when we moved in,” he chimed, “but that’s besides the point. I just was checking if you were awake. I have…”
John rustled and opened his eyes to look at him. Sherlock was trying to find the right words. He wondered what he would say to him and why it was so difficult.
“I have a proposition for you,” Sherlock said finally. “A proposal, really.”
“If it involves leaving this sofa,” John said, closing his eyes again, “I have to say no.”
“Yes, well, actually, we can do it right here.”
John’s brows furrowed because the way Sherlock had said “do it” sounded almost like an entendre. He wanted to giggle. “Do it,” like they were in first form and couldn’t say “shag.”
Sherlock cleared his throat but didn’t speak for at least a minute and a half. “We should have sex.”
No fucking way. John swung his body over fiercely trying to get up from the sofa. He really did mean sex? What was happening? This wasn’t happening.
“Oh, you’re eager,” Sherlock giggled before sitting next to him.
“Sherlock…” John sputtered. He couldn’t find his voice. “You want to…?”
“Yes, yes, stop acting so surprised. I’ve been initiating it for weeks now. I’ve only realized that I need to be direct with you.”
John sighed. Of course all the snogging they had done was part of some ulterior motive for Sherlock. But why sex? Was there something he wanted to test? To prove? Would he collect semen? John shivered.
“Please say something,” Sherlock said softly. John couldn’t remember the last time he had witnessed his flatmate act so vulnerably.
“I want you, Sherlock.” It was time to be vulnerable back.
“Then take me.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He was on him quickly, hungrily. Instincts took over. There on their sofa in the middle of their flat, he was inside him. It was mind-blowing. It was loud. And afterward he placed kisses on every inch of Sherlock’s skin, saying tiny prayers to himself wishing he could keep him. His Sherlock.
It was much later that the regret set in. Eventually they each had to go back to their own rooms, their own beds. John knew he could never take Sherlock into his own bed. He knew he wasn’t really his just because he had made love to him in the hottest, sexiest way he had ever done with anyone. John had fucked Sherlock and in doing so, had fucked himself.
So he cried all night and wondered how it would be possible to ever look at Sherlock in the face again and not see everything he could never have. But he would have to because after the event that had occurred, it would be rude and insulting to not continue life as it had been.
Breakfast was quiet and tense. John wasn’t even sure how he managed to walk into the room with Sherlock there.
For one, he was still naked. Not immodestly as he was wrapped in a sheet, but it was obvious there was nothing on his body underneath the bedding.
Secondly, he was furiously texting someone and didn’t seem to notice John had even entered.
John grabbed some coffee and sat down at the table next to Sherlock. He wasn’t sure if he should say something so he simply cleared his throat. He didn’t stir. John sipped at his coffee and ignored him as he typed into his phone.
Then the phone moaned.
John just about lost it.
“Is that who you’re so animatedly texting this morning then?” he barked, referring to the notification noise that belonged to Adler.
“What’s with the hostility, John?” Sherlock muttered from the side of his mouth.
Maybe I don’t want to have to compete with someone only hours after being intimate with you, he thought, angrily.
He chose not to answer the question.
“You don’t have to be jealous,” he said as if reading his mind. “I’m just bragging to my good friend about how you deflowered me in our sitting room last night.”
“W-what?”
“I had to tell someone, I wasn’t going to keep this all to my-“
“ It was your first time ?!” John spit with concern.
He slammed his coffee mug on the table and rose from his chair. “Sherlock, you gotta tell a bloke that!”
“It really isn’t that big of a deal,” he waved, never looking away from his phone. “I’m not into all that nonsense. Virginity is just a construct.”
“But I should have been gentle. It can hurt and I was so rough with you. All I thought about was getting my chance with you. I should have stopped and put on a sodding condom. Oh my God, Sherlock, I didn’t use a condom! I’m a doctor, I know better. I…I messed up.” He was spiraling. “I should have known. You should have told me!”
“John, it’s okay. I’m okay.” Sherlock tried to reassure. He stood up and moved slowly toward him.
“But…” It was now or never. He needed to be clear with him. This wasn’t going to happen again. He couldn’t do no-strings attached. The strings were very much attached.
“I can’t do meaningless sex with you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened and he looked at John with worry. “Meaningless?” His voice was small and came out like a gasp. He gripped onto the sheet that was barely hiding his bare form.
“I can’t do friends-with-benefits. It has to mean something. I…I would like for us to be a couple.”
Sherlock blinked and scoffed but didn’t say anything for a moment or so.
Finally, he exasperatedly shouted, “We are a couple, John!”
“A couple of mates! Not a romantic couple! I know we do everything together like best friends. I know that might be confusing. But if we have sex regularly, it has to be more than that.”
“I’m not confused!” He cried, “We are a romantic couple!”
John shook his head in disbelief. “We never once had a conversation. I never asked you.”
“You didn’t have to. I deduced it. You…it’s the way you look at me. How you never correct Mrs. Hudson anymore when she implies we’re together. You wait up for me. You feed me. You pay for things. The way you kiss me. We do everything together. I just know.”
John only stared.
“I already consider you my boyfriend. Didn’t you know?”
“I am an idiot,” John said defeatedly.
Sherlock closed the distance between them with a hug. John placed his head on his shoulder and Sherlock wiggled his fingers through his hair.
“I love you,” John whispered before lifting his face towards Sherlock’s.
“I love you, too,” he smiled.
They kissed.
John loved Sherlock and Sherlock loved John.