Chapter Text
“Another case solved by Sherlock Holmes!” John says, raising a glass in toast.
“Another case solved by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson,” Sherlock corrects. “You were instrumental. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
They bask together in the warm afternoon glow of Venice. Sherlock’s long, lean legs stretch out in front of him. He is, for once, relaxed and entirely content as he raises his own glass of rather expensive red wine in a toast. The production budget absolutely spoils them. For all that Sherlock is only in it for the case and generally cares next to nothing about food and scenery, it is hard not to get used to delicious meals and expensive clothes. He is too used to being driven everywhere and being jetted across the world now and he despairs for when he has to pay for cabs again back in London.
“Well, that depends on how you define instrumental,” John says, laughing into his wine. “As I recall, you did most of the work and I spent most of my days flirting with seventeen different people.”
Sherlock laughs too. “John, the flirting was the most important part. Imagine if I had to do this alone! I would be dead by now, extinguished by human interaction and boredom.”
“They nearly murdered me because I kept taking you on one-on-one dates when some people hadn’t even had one!” John retorted. “I swear Karen was fantasizing about stabbing me with a fork when I finally took her out. She was quiet the whole time and when she finally spoke it was to complain about how I only ever talked to you and Mary. How was she supposed to win the competition if I didn’t let her seduce me, she wanted to know.”
Sherlock nodded in sympathy. “You’ve saved my life many times but I’ve never been more grateful to you than when you saved me from the clutches of that man…what was his name? He was eliminated in the second week, so I forget. Richard? Ross?”
“Robert,” John reminds him. “And, of course he was eliminated in the second week. Hitting on one of the other contestants right in front of me?” John jokes. In fact, Robert had not been the only Bachelor contestant to pine after Sherlock instead of the person they were supposed to be pining after: John. Sherlock found this an inconvenience and John found it hilarious. Sherlock had complained to him on multiple occasions about both the men and the women hanging about him when he was trying to read or compose in the evening and trying to flirt with him.
"Why are they even interested?" Sherlock had said despairingly.
"You are both the vainest man I know and entirely oblivious of your good looks," John had returned with a roll of his eyes. "Just try to slip out of the polite role and be yourself. I'm sure they'll get the message pretty quickly."
John seems to find the memory of Sherlock cornered by unwanted admirers to be amusing because he continues to smile to himself as he pours both of them more wine.
“Yeah, that Robert bloke had to go. I couldn’t marry someone if they were constantly hitting on my best friend,” he teases.
Sherlock freezes.
“What’s the matter?” John asks when he sees the look on his face, rather concerned.
“You mean…” Sherlock says, hesitant. “I’m your…best friend?”
Sherlock blinks at him, trying not to betray any of the emotion that threatens to bubble to the surface. He can’t let himself look like an idiot in front of the cameras. No one on the show notices the cameras any more. Seeing as they are on week ten, everyone has gotten used to behaving as if the cameras are not there at all. Sherlock has always been effective at blocking out unwanted distractions. Until now: he doesn’t want to have this moment in front of national audiences. He wants this, John’s declaration of friendship, to be private. Worse yet, if John laughs and says he had only been joking, he wants to melt away and never look anyone in the eyes again.
John looks at him, bewildered. “Sherlock,” he says, stunned. “Are you serious? Of course, you’re my best friend. Jesus, how are you surprised? What am I to you?”
Everything. The only person for whom I have ever felt anything like this. The person I want to spend the rest of my life with.
But all of that is a bit Not Good to say to your best friend.
Instead he says: “Of course, you’re my best friend. Everyone knows that. But as you’re the one who actually has other friends and isn’t insufferable to be around, I would think you’d be a bit more selective about giving out that title.”
He tries to diffuse it with a joke. He smiles to drive the point home.
“I have been selective about it,” John says, not joking back. “And you’re, without a hint of a competition, the best friend that I’ve ever had.”
With those words Sherlock is in heaven. The trip has really exceeded all of his expectations. When he had first approached John with the idea, he had merely been hopeful that John would be lured into going undercover with him (however reluctantly) by the promise of over a dozen beautiful young women wanting to go out with him. He had scarcely hoped that they would spend this much time in each other’s company or that it would be so enjoyable to travel around the world together playing cat and mouse with a serial killer.
The case had simply been too interesting to give up. A serial killer whom he had been tracking for months had given him the slip. A rather clever serial killer with no discernable pattern, motive or profile. A lucky thread had led Sherlock to find one crucial lead. His dear Corkscrew Killer was applying to a reality show in order to escape him: the very first bisexual edition of The Bachelor. Sherlock not only admired the creativity, he also had good reason to believe that the killer was going to use this opportunity to complete his or her Magnum Opus and commit their final murder on national television. The only way to sniff out his adversary was to become a contestant on said television programme himself. The added complication was that, after googling the nonsensical programme extensively, Sherlock was certain that the titular bachelor was the intended murder victim. Sherlock desperately needed the bachelor to be a strong ally (a highly trained ex army doctor, for example) instead of a bumbling wimp in search of love who would probably faint at the sight of a serial killer.
Convincing the television network had been the easiest task in the world. Sherlock didn’t even have to resort to dragging in Scotland Yard or Mycroft. Once they had seen his files on the killer and heard of his plans they were practically weeping with excitement over the production possibilities. Sherlock should have seen it coming but he really didn’t. His knowledge of network television was profoundly lacking.
The producer, an American man by the name of Kevin Fowler, had clasped his hands with tears in his eyes. “The Corkscrew Killer? He’s been all over the news and you want to use my show to catch him? Oh Mr. Holmes. Oh Mr. Holmes! And you’re a little famous on the Internet aren’t you? I looked you up before our meeting. And your friend is famous too! People read his blog by the thousands. And you want him to be the bachelor. Oh my god. Oh my god. And this is the first time there have been both male and female contestants. This is going to be the best TV event of the year. Do you even understand the ratings we’re going to get? ” Kevin shouted at him.
“No Mr. Fowler,” he had said disdainfully, clutching his files to his chest with the hand that was not in Kevin’s vice-like grip. “I really don’t.”
Kevin had laughed and clasped his hand even harder. “No you don’t! Oh you’re so precious. You were made to be on reality TV. Look at your face! Hundreds of women are going to fall in love with you.”
“I sincerely doubt that,” Sherlock had said, rather clipped, as Kevin grinned at him like he was the most beautiful thing in the world.
“I could kiss you, Mr. Holmes,” Kevin said. “Folks back in New York are going to want me to export the show there. You and I are going to make the best TV this country has ever seen.”
Sherlock could not have disagreed more but he knew when to refrain from disagreeable remarks in order to get his way.
“You’re going to need to slip in subtle interview questions to make sure the contestants you choose don’t know who John and I are,” Sherlock instructed. “I’ve prepared these questions and left them in the file for you. Asking about their media consumption, what blogs they read, what their interests are should do the trick.”
Kevin had frowned then. “How do you know the Corkscrew Killer will even make it past the interview round?”
“Oh she will,” Sherlock had promised. “She’s exceedingly clever. You don’t need to go out of your way to make sure she succeeds. Just ask the questions I prepared and she’ll make her way through.”
“How do you know it’s she?”
“Just a hunch,” Sherlock had said. “I hope you understand I’m going to need your full cooperation on this. I’ve read up on the various mindless rules and activities and dates in your programme. If I need to bend a few of them to catch the killer, you need to let me without me having to bring Scotland Yard into it. Is that clear?”
Kevin suddenly drew back, all business instead of warmth and admiration. Sherlock liked that better. He generally trusted cold rationality more than mindless niceties.
“You give me production value and I’ll let you do whatever you want. The audience will know your identity and Dr. Watson’s as well. It will essentially be two shows in one! One show is about Dr. Watson finding a potential love interest and the real show is going to be about a crime-fighting duo undercover in a reality show. So if you need to use your one-on-one dates with John to track down clues, we would be more than happy to let you do that instead of going to see the Eiffel tower. But I want to be able to film it!”
“Fine. I don’t see why not. By the time you air your insipid excuse of a show, I will have already caught the killer. But I’m not going to slow down in my process if your crew falls behind!”
“Pretend the cameras aren’t there,” Kevin agreed. “That’s not your concern. You just be your dramatic self and let the ratings roll in.”
“Fine,” Sherlock agreed.
“Fantastic,” Kevin said.
“Send me the contracts directly after they are drawn. I’ll look them over,” Sherlock had agreed.
“Mr. Holmes,” Kevin had said just as Sherlock reached for the door. “Are you and Dr. Watson—“
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, we are not! We are friends and for the purposes of interacting in front of the other contestants, we are all going to pretend that John and I are strangers. And he’s only ever shown interest in women,” Sherlock snapped. “Will that be a problem for you?”
Kevin shrugged, not at all concerned. “Not even a bit. As long as he pretends he’s at least a little bit interested in men, for the cameras, what do I care? Just because I’m gay, doesn’t mean I have any emotional investment in this. It’s just business. He can choose a woman in the end, if he wants.”
Sherlock blinked at him a few times. “Choose…”
“Well, he can refuse to choose anybody if that’s what he wants,” Kevin said. “But that rarely happens on the show and while he’s at it, going undercover and all, he might as well find a date, eh?”
“Right,” Sherlock had said on his way out. “Right”
Convincing John had been a bit more difficult.
“You want me to fucking what?” Had been John’s exact words upon hearing Sherlock’s request.
“Can you think of a better way?”
“Sherlock, have you ever seen The Bachelor?”
“I can’t say that I have but I did google—“
“Well, I have seen the bloody Bachelor when I was unemployed and had too much time on my hands and let me tell you, it is filled with the worst sort of people on this planet. The men on that show literally string along a dozen girls (whom they barely know and all of whom claim to be madly in love with them) for weeks on end! It’s absolutely disgusting.”
“Oh and letting some man get murdered on national television is better than stringing along a few women?” Sherlock had countered.
John had grimaced. “No. Jesus. Of course not. But you know I’m a shit actor and I can’t do that. I can’t fake it.”
“There are bound to be some acceptable women in the mix,” Sherlock had argued. “They can’t be more boring than your usual sort. Perhaps you won’t have to fake it. You can find a girlfriend!”
“Did you just try to trick me into this by offering me a hypothetical girlfriend?”
“I don’t have to. I know you’re much more tempted by the offer of a non-hypothetical serial killer.”
“You know how this will end, right? You’ll have a plan and keep me in the dark. The serial killer will somehow manage to get me. And I’ll be one step away from being gutted by a corkscrew and you’ll blaze in and save the day. Or not. Who knows, with you?!”
Sherlock’s eyes go wide. “I wouldn’t let that happen,” he promises, fiercely. “I wouldn’t invite you if I didn’t think we could do this without you coming to harm. I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t intend for us to work as a team. I won’t keep you in the dark.”
John sighed. His resolve crumbling around him. “I know you’d hate spending quality time with two dozen people but wouldn’t you rather go undercover as the bachelor yourself?”
“Oh no. I have to be one of the contestants so I can observe them up close. I need you not only because you can take care of yourself but also because I need you to make sure I get through to the next round,” Sherlock had explained.
“Wait. One of the contestants?” John asked, laughing. “You do realize that you’re, you know, a man?”
“Do keep up, John. It’s the first bisexual bachelor,” Sherlock had snapped. “Sorry to offend your unimpeachable heterosexuality. No one was going to force you to make out with men. You only had to chitchat with a few of them and then eliminate them in the next few rounds. Never mind. I’ll just find someone else.”
“Hey, hey! Slow down. I didn’t know, okay? I have no problem with…that,” John had stammered. “And if you think I’m going to let you go tracking down a maniac who likes to gut people with corkscrews and knows exactly who you are, you have another thing coming.”
So if Sherlock hadn’t suspected that the case would turn out to feel more like an international adventure with his best friend than a tedious waiting game with a serial killer, it was because they had gotten off to a rocky start.
And despite the wonderful time Sherlock has had on this vacation, he is fully aware that this very endeavor, to which he himself had invited John, had probably lost him John’s companionship forever. The bitter irony of it all! It’s when he’s finally managed to exchange confirmation of friendship with John and spend months having adventures with him across the globe that he is finally losing him.
Against all odds, John has gone and fallen in love on a preposterous telly programme (that was never meant to be anything but a front for crime fighting) with a woman named Mary Morstan. How utterly tedious.
John and Sherlock are on their last “date” before the final ceremony: a full day in Venice, drinking wine outdoors in one of the most expensive restaurants in the city and celebrating their capture of the Corkscrew Killer. John’s final three selections from the contestants had been Sherlock, the killer (a woman named Kate Stevens) and Mary. As the first two choices had been case-related, obviously, John’s final choice was already made. In fact, his final choice had been clear all along as he had spent all the time he didn’t dedicate to crime solving,joking and talking with Sherlock (which, to be fair, was a lot of the time) flirting with Mary. Sherlock had watched helplessly as John fell in love more and more every day.
Sherlock had offered to skip the “date”.
“We don’t have to go out together,” Sherlock had insisted. “We’re done with the case and the audience certainly knows why we’re here. Mary knows the truth. We have no one left to fool!”
“Sherlock, Venice is beautiful and we spent all of our time in Bangkok and Paris and Istanbul going on silly activities or tracking down evidence against Stevens to really take in the sights. It’s not our money. Let them treat us to a day out. What else are you going to do? Mope around the hotel and complain that you’re bored?”
The producer and director had been adamantly on John’s side. Apparently, they were the biggest draw of the show. Most of the episodes had aired already (they let everyone to catch up so they could air the finale live) and ratings were through the roof.
“They don’t even fucking care about the contestants anymore,” Kevin had told them. “Reviewers are literally going crazy for you two and your detective spiel.”
“Detective spiel?” Sherlock had protested but John had shushed him gently.
“You have to go on your last date!” Kevin had said, siding with John. “They will literally fucking watch you eat food for two hours if that’s all you do. They don’t fucking care. They fucking love you two. You’re on the cover of every fucking tabloid in the UK. American audiences are watching it on YouTube. Wasted fucking market for advertisement! I’m ready to sign a $70,000 per episode contract with you right this second: your own show on American TV.”
“What?” John had stuttered.
“Just filming you guys solve crimes. No strings. No expectations,” Kevin had said, excited. “You don’t need to do a thing differently. They fucking love your dynamic. You can live off the money forever.”
John had looked sorely tempted by the idea but Sherlock had cut in: “Absolutely not. John and I would rather starve than be the stars of a vapid television programme.”
Kevin was crestfallen. “Think about it, okay?” he’d said to John in a whisper that he thought Sherlock couldn’t hear.
So Sherlock had agreed to go on the full-day “date” with John and had thus far passed one of the most enjoyable days of his life. It was on par with some of his cases. To Sherlock’s surprise and horror they hadn’t even done much. It should be absolutely horrifying that Sherlock could be happy doing boring, normal things all day but he was utterly blissful. They had walked along the canal, bickered about who had knocked out Kate Stevens, deduced annoying tourists in St. Mark’s square and eaten far more pasta than was necessary. Now, they were lounging in the sun, full and half-drunk on expensive wine.
Yet Sherlock was half joy and half agony because he had been peripherally aware of the outline of a ring box in John’s left pocket all morning. It was worse than he thought. John hadn’t just found a new girlfriend. He was going to propose to said new girlfriend.
Sherlock snaps himself back out of his thoughts and back to the present and the fact that John has just called him the best friend he’s ever had.
I’m not a good friend. I can’t even be happy for you because I’m a jealous, selfish sociopath. If I were a friend you truly deserved I would be happy simply to see you happy.
Instead he says: “I feel the same way.”
John smiles at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the smile, the sun making his expression even more luminous.
“She’s going to say yes,” Sherlock says, not able to help himself.
“What?” John says, genuinely confused.
“The ring in your pocket. She’s going to say yes,” Sherlock repeats.
John blushes a little. “Of course you noticed! Chris gave it to me this morning, they were sizing the ring and it just got ready this morning, and I didn’t have a chance to drop it off in my room. Of course I told them you’d deduce it and spoil the ending for everyone at home,” John says, shaking his head. He turns to address the camera. This is a faux-pas in the making of reality television and one that John and Sherlock commit frequently because it amuses them and also because they are the stars and can get away with it: “You can cut this bit out later in the editing room! Make sure there are no spoilers for our happy viewers. Because Sherlock just deduced the shape of a ring-box in my pocket…definitely one of his most astonishing feats to date.”
Sherlock laughs at his antics and the obvious displeasure of the filming crew, who remain silent but scowl furiously at the breach of the fourth wall.
“Come on,” Sherlock says brightly, burying the sadness deep inside him in favor of basking in John’s good mood. “Our gondola is waiting.”
“Gondola?” John smiles, a little skeptical but grabs the wine bottle from the table and follows him obediently.
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, they do keep shoving their romantic television tropes in our faces despite everything. It’s clearly a ploy to add an additional comedic angle to their insipid show. ‘Oh look, in addition to solving murders they have to navigate the awkwardness of candlelit dinners! Hilarious.’” Sherlock jokes in his usual acidic tone. The crew had long given up on stopping him from insulting the show on camera. In fact, Kevin loved and encouraged it: “It’s drawing in a whole new demographic of people who don’t even watch reality TV! They tune in every week just to hear Sherlock insult the intelligence of the show. It’s pure genius.”
“I don’t think our candlelit dinners have ever been awkward,” John says in a steady voice.
Sherlock looks over at him and catches the guarded expression on his face. That was perhaps not the right thing to say and revealed too much about his own nervousness. Of course, John wouldn’t find them awkward. He wasn’t the one harboring secret feelings.
“Oh, you know what I mean,” he said hastily. “They just do it to add intrigue to the show.”
They walk in comfortable silence to the Grand Canal, where their gondola is waiting for them complete with predicted romantic elements: roses, champagne, chocolates and a violin. John and Sherlock both chuckle at the accuracy of Sherlock’s predictions and hop aboard. As their gondolier sets about rowing them on the pleasantly warm and crowded waters of the Grand Canal, they dedicate themselves to the task of finishing their wine and working through the chocolate and champagne, resolutely ignoring the single camera man hunched in the front of the boat. It’s easy to ignore an entire film crew rowing alongside them when they’re giggling about inside jokes and tasting their way through a box of sweets. Sherlock is light and tipsy and infinitely grateful to be sharing all these moments with John, even if they are limited.
“I think they left the violin there for you to serenade me with,” John teases good-naturedly, shoving the violin towards him.
Sherlock may have hesitated when sober but he is rather drunk at the moment and hops up to accommodate John’s request in a heartbeat. He plays Vivaldi as John stretches out in the evening light and his eyes flutter closed, smiling serenely. He watches John out of the corner of his eyes, not daring to be caught staring on camera but needing to memorize John’s soft, joyful expression regardless. He needs to remember that though he may be in love with Mary, Sherlock can still make him smile, make him happy, if only just for a day. He pours everything into the strings, making them ache with the bittersweet joy of the day he has just spent with John.
When he finishes John cracks an eyes open to grin at him in appreciation and several other nearby gondolas burst with applause. Sherlock jerks back to the present and glares at them in annoyance. John laughs as Sherlock puts down the violin and flops down next to him.
“Ridiculous,” he mutters.
“It’s hard not to be moved when you play so well,” John says sincerely. “I don’t blame them.”
The flattery mollifies Sherlock effectively and he is reduced to a heavy mass of limbs lounging in the Venetian sunset. His head spins a little and he wonders if it’s the champagne or just John.
“John,” he says before he can stop himself. “When are you moving out?”
John looks over at him, eyebrows knit together in concern. “You could pretend to be less eager to get rid of me,” he teases.
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s not what I meant. You’re getting engaged. Obviously you would want to live with your fiancée. I’m only asking so I know when to prepare for the eventuality.”
John simply stares at him with suspicion and doesn’t say anything.
“You’ll visit me often, won’t you?” Sherlock says before he can stop himself. He’s drunker than he realized and being rather maudlin. It’s nauseating but he can’t help it. “You know I’ll only wreck the place if you stay away for too long. Mrs. Hudson will be furious. You’ll have to come visit, if only to please her.”
“Sherlock, I haven’t gone yet. Nothing is set,” John protests. “I’m still living there.”
Not for very long, Sherlock thinks.
“I honestly can’t congratulate you,” Sherlock says. “Love is an emotional thing and all it does is cloud the precise, cold, calculated reason that I value above everything else. It’s a weakness.”
He turns to look at John who is lying right next to him, so close that their shoulders are nearly touching. John is frowning at him, clearly upset. Of course he is. Sherlock is saying things that are very Not Good.
“Sherlock,” John says, a note of warning in his voice.
And who is Sherlock to judge him when he is the weak one? Sherlock is a coward for whom love is a terrible weakness, who is practically withering under his inability to comprehend his love for John, who is too weak to be happy that the man he loves has found happiness elsewhere. John is the bravest man he has ever known and has grown stronger and happier as he has fallen in love. It’s clear that Sherlock is, for once, very wrong.
“That was before I knew you, however,” Sherlock concedes. “And your love for Mary has really done nothing but make you an even more capable soldier and doctor and a better man, if that were even possible. Even geniuses are wrong sometimes.”
“Sherlock,” John repeats, softly. Sherlock has no idea what he’s trying to say but he averts his eyes and plows on.
“So, I guess what I’m saying is…I’m happy for you,” Sherlock says, almost choking under the effort it takes to say it. He stares at the blue-red sky above them, trying very hard to keep his voice steady. “You deserve so much happiness and I…I’m so pleased for you.”
“I…um…thank you,” John stammers, reaching on a hand to rest on his elbow. “Not just for…that but for today. I had a really great time. I love…spending time with you.”
Sherlock blinks. They must both be drunker than he realized. John doesn’t usually say things like that. They lounge in comfortable silence, John’s hand on his elbow, tipsy and content in the warm evening as they are rowed to their hotel, as if all if well with the world.
But the truth is that John kissed him once. They were in Istanbul and Sherlock had already deduced that Kate Stevens was the Corkscrew Killer. Still, they couldn’t prove it without tangible evidence. Sherlock saying that she had telling calluses on her thumb and forefinger may be enough for Lestrade but it wouldn’t be enough for the jury. So they were on one of their many one-on-one dates, which they used as a cover for having time alone to work on the case and, which were the cause for much melodrama between the contestants.
No sooner was he back from one of these one-on-one dates that the whole group was upon him like vultures, demanding details.
“He’s taken you out four times now! If he’s already made up his mind, why are we even here?” Karen had wailed in despair.
“Are you fucking him?” had been the less delicate interrogation from Sophia.
“He doesn’t even seem particularly interested in cock, what’s so special about you?” had been the complaint from David, who had told them all about the fact that he had kissed John last week and John had kissed him back with minimal enthusiasm. This, Sherlock knew, was a part of John’s campaign to show at least some interest in the other contestants (men and women alike) to keep the show exciting and not violate their contracts.
“And he doesn’t even pay you attention when we’re in groups or anything. He doesn’t even invite you on group dates! He spends most of his time talking to Mary or Karen. So how do you get him to keep taking you out on one-on-one dates? So what’s the deal? He fucks you on the side and dates everyone else?” Marissa had accused.
“Ladies, gentlemen. I’m not going to entertain questions about things that are absolutely none of your business,” Sherlock would snap every time, retreating to his room. It was bad enough watching pretty women fling themselves at John every day, it was even worse to be reminded of their lack of romantic connection so crudely.
But then, they had been in Istanbul and Sherlock was positive that Stevens was going to buy more of the paralytics she used on her victims from a well-known Turkish drug smuggler and they had spent the whole night on top of a centuries’ old mosque waiting for the deal to happen. And then they had gone on a mad chase across Istanbul, only to lose track of the drug smuggler in a deserted alleyway that led to the old town market.
They had leaned against a dirty cement wall, laughing and breathless. And Sherlock had sworn out loud and cursed the fact that he hadn’t memorized the alleyways of Istanbul before their stakeout, while John laughed at him. And then, they weren’t laughing anymore, they were simply leaning against a dirty wall, gasping for breath and smiling at each other.
John had simply pulled on his lapels, as if it were the easiest thing in the world and not absolutely terrifying and impossible, and kissed him firmly against the wall with one hand cupping his cheek. His lips were warm and soft and moved against Sherlock’s with ease. It was over in a moment and John was pulling away from him before he could deepen the kiss, leaving a cold empty space in his arms. From the end of the alleyway there was the sound of running footsteps: the camera crew was catching up with them.
“Sorry,” John had mumbled looking in their direction nervously, dragging a hand across his face. “I didn’t want to…sorry.”
Sherlock’s stomach plunged into the abyss. It was the most devastating thing he had ever heard. He didn’t want John to be sorry for kissing him. He would prefer not to have been kissed by John at all than to live with the knowledge that John had kissed him and was now sorry.
John was always the one to be mindful of their contract and to try to please the producers. It wasn’t unlikely that he had kissed him in a mix of adrenaline and a desire to follow Kevin’s command that he “fucking kiss everyone who is still on the show because there is only six of them left and you need to have chemistry with all of them otherwise it’ll be obvious you don’t want them here”. John had probably been so woozy from the chase and so adamant about showing romantic interest in everyone around him that he’d momentarily forgotten who he was with.
“It’s perfect fine,” Sherlock had said hastily, not wanting John to feel more uncomfortable than he already was. “Sometimes it’s hard to remember who you’re standing next to. It’s perfectly understandable under the circumstances. Unfortunately, you missed the camera by a mere second!” Sherlock pointed out, gesturing at the crew, who had finally caught up with them, with a nod of his head.
“That’s not—“ John started.
“Whoa! You two are fast, aren’t you?” Paul, the AD, had said, clutching at his sides with the effort it took to catch his breath. “Blimey, I can’t feel my legs.”
“You’re actually the most amazing reality stars I’ve ever worked with. You’re like superheroes, the way you chased after that guy! And you basically write your own damn dialogue. You’d be surprised how much of reality programming is scripted. You’re exciting without even trying to be and you’re champs enough to kiss for the camera. That isn’t something you always get,” Chris chimed in with genuine admiration, also breathless but marginally more functional than Paul. “Mind doing another take of that, mate? I caught a bit of it but it’s so dark that it’s going to be all grainy. I think if we’re going to stage a kiss for you we could get some proper lighting, do some good dialogue leading up to it. What d’you think?”
Sherlock thought that he knew beyond a reasonable doubt that he would puke if he stayed there another moment.
“Please excuse me,” was all he managed before turning on his heels and heading towards the hotel.
“Jesus Christ. Sherlock!” he heard John call after him and he sped up, vanishing around a corner and taking a complicated route back to the hotel, just to make sure they (John) wouldn’t catch up with him.
They had never mentioned that night, nor had there been any awkwardness between them. But Sherlock thought of it every day and never more than when he knew he was going to lose John in just a few days. Never more than when they were lying drunk, side-by-side on a gondola in Venice.
“Ah, we’re here. We’re at the hotel,” John says, clambering to stand and offering Sherlock a hand.
Sherlock touches his lips absently as they make their way down the street to the hotel and thinks that perhaps that is the problem. If kissing John had remained out of the question, perhaps Sherlock could have survived this.
But the truth is that John kissed him once and Sherlock hasn’t stopped thinking about it for a moment.
"Jones gets the credit, I fall in love. What about you?" John says with great affection in his voice as they finally arrive at the hotel.
Sherlock looks at him, urging his heart to not jump out of his chest. "For me, there's always the game."